A Brother Noble
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Holmes and Watson must penetrate a very personal mystery concerning a brutal attack, the Dr's late brother, and a pocketwatch. A joint fic by KCS and Protector of the Gray Fortress.
1. I Have Shot Mine Arrow

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are only on lend for this fic.

A/N: This story is a joint effort by both KCS and Protector of the Gray Fortress. It deals with the mystery surrounding Watson's brother and his watch...both of which were presented in Conan Doyle's "The Sign of Four."

"A brother noble, whose nature is so far from doing harms that he suspects none." - William Shakespeare

"I have shot mine arrow oe'r the house, and hurt my brother." -Unknown

* * *

Chapter 1: "I Have Shot Mine Arrow"

**_Watson:_**

It has not been a habit of mine, in laying before the public those Problems my friend, Sherlock Holmes, dedicated his existence to solving, to make known those particular cases which touched me in a personal nature. Even living with the world's foremost detective, one did have one's own problems occasionally.

But I have recently received a telegram from Holmes himself, suggesting that I lay the facts of this particular case before the public. And since his permission for my publications is somewhat sparsely given, I shall take this opportunity and endeavor to put the events down on paper before a contradictory wire comes my way.

It began, as I recall, the 24th of November, a very cold and wet evening in the year 1887, not long after our case concerning Jonathan Small and the Great Agra Treasure. I had good reason for remembering that case, for it was in the conclusion of it that Miss Mary Morstan dYouid me the honor to consent to become my wife.

I was returning home from my consulting room and though the evening was dreary and the rain steady…it could do nothing to dampen my ardor toward the angelic creature that currently occupied my thoughts, the one who had been so kinds as to consent to spend the rest of her life with me.

Mary, at the time of which I speak, had contracted a severe cold, and both I and her employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, had implored her to take a holiday in a less inclement area than London.

In consequence, it had been over a week since I last saw my fiancee, and already I was wistfully mooning, To quote exactly Holmes's teasing remarks, 'like an over-grown, lovesick schoolboy.' But his jesting was good-natured, for the most part. He sincerely respected Mary and I was glad of it.

My thoughts were turned blissfully in her direction, and I was busily engaged in planning all the things we should do together once she returned from her holiday.

In consequence, I did not even notice the rain drizzling down from the drab, brick buildings around me. And missed entirely, the two dark figures who slipped into step behind me, from the dim doorway I had just passed.

My first and only warning was the scrape of a boot on wet pavement. I turned and caught a glimpse of two silhouettes before I felt a sharp pain on my shoulder and was knocked to my knees onto the damp ground.

Any chance of my retaliation was eliminated due to the fact that the blow, landed on the shoulder that I had wounded during the battle of Maiwand, doubling the pain.

My attackers hesitated, as though surprised to see me go down so easily. Then the shorter of the two bent forward and reached for my black bag.

I drove my fist into his jaw and sent him wheeling backwards. I began to get to my feet, still clutching my shoulder. The blow had left me lightheaded and I knew that I was in no condition to fight off two attackers at once. If I had damaged the one badly enough I might be able to take out his partner. Or I could call for help. Surely, even at this late hour, someone would be up? I was only a block or so away from the flat Holmes and I shared.

The second attacker flew at me, holding a club, the implement that had, no doubt, first struck my shoulder. I dodged his blow, grateful now for the many practice bouts of Baritsu and boxing Holmes had made me suffer through.

I managed to land several blows on his abdomen and one on his nose. He cried out, clutching his broken bleeding face and I felt a glow of triumph that quite shut out the pain and the cold. Perhaps I would not require assistance.

I might not have, but I never got the chance to find out, for I had committed a serious error - and had forgotten my other attacker.

And I was too slow to dodge the stunning blow to my head.

He went at me for several moments while I staggered and struggled to shake off the effects. When my vision finally cleared it was only to see that his partner had recovered from his broken nose and again held the club.

My world became a whirl of fists, and leering faces, then changed to a mass of booted feet as I collapsed at last onto the ground.

I curled in on myself, trying to protect my ribs and head from the vicious kicks, my body panging sharply from the blows I had already received.

At long last it stopped, and I lay still on the pavement, wheezing painfully with every breath, only too aware of the sensation of hot blood on my cold face, and the metallic taste of it in my mouth.

A northern voice, gruff and ripe with authority, broke through the haze of pain and demanded my attention. "Where's it at, Doctor?"

I opened my left eye (I was fairly certain the right was swollen shut) and focused , with difficulty, on the bleary figures towering over me.

"Where 'ave you put it?"

His words made no sense to my pained semi-consciousness...I could not think.

"What?" I slurred.

A second voice joined the first, shaking with a nervousness which the other was entirely devoid of.

"Perhaps we shouldn't 'ave worked him so hard?...what if 'e's dyin'?"

"e's not dyin'."

Rough hands seized me by my coat front and my face was brought within inches of an unshaven countenance that reeked of foul, cheap, ale.

"Are yeh Doctor? You got lots of fight left in ya. Just like ol' Andrew. But you're smarter 'n 'e was ain't ye?"

I struggled feebly, trying vainly to turn away from the terrible face.

"You'll 'and it over…we'll be back for it."

The ruffian finally released his hold, letting my numb body hit the pavement. I groaned at the sharp pang in my head and so did not see them vanish back into the shadows.

My mind was reeling, not only from the beating I had just received, but from the name. The name I had not heard for years. The name that had belonged to my recently deceased brother.

Andrew.

But those thoughts were pushed to the back of my mind with the sudden flash of pain that shot through my aching body. I realized I needed help and attention, categorizing a possible concussion and broken ribs amongst my other injuries.

In my muddled, semi-conscious mind the address 221b Baker Street seemed to play like a broken phonograph record through my mind…what it was I was too delirious to remember, but I knew it meant help. Help and comfort.

I somehow staggered to my feet and set off unsteadily down the remaining few hundred yards to the house… I had to get there, I could no longer remember why, but I had to. I simply had to.

TBC:


	2. Friend and Brother

"The time shall come when man to man shall be a friend and brother." - William Shakespeare

* * *

Chapter 2: "Friend and Brother"

**_Holmes:_**

_If you find it convenient, then, that I should call tomorrow around ten-thirty, I should be glad of your advice in what promises to be a most…_

I crumpled up the offending note in absolute exasperation and tossed it over my shoulder, where it landed amidst the great litter of other papers on the floor.

I mean, really! I, Sherlock Holmes, the world's most talented investigator, asked to solve the mystery behind the disappearance of some drivelly love-letters that belonged to Lady Grey, from her late husband, and she sowanted them back, they meant the world to her, etc., etc.

Was this agency really deteriorating as rapidly as it seemed? We had had no cases of any interest or any import in over a month, since Watson brought that half-drowned lad home, the one he had found on the street near the riverfront, the only witness of a knifing.

Now, now I was being implored to find a packet of letters from a dead Duke, when the woman's maid was obviously responsible for their disappearance…always check with the servants first, My Lady. The indignity of it all!

Why had there been no murders in the dark and depraved backstreets of London? Why were there no daring burglaries being committed? Why was there no violence occurring at all in such a city? What had happened to all the interesting little puzzles that had been so abundant in bygone years?

My boredom was becoming quite unbearable…but Watson's happiness was so complete as of late, that I was hesitant to use the syringe and cause him to worry after my well-being, especially when I knew he would be returning to Baker Street shortly from his consulting-room.

I sighed and began to nervously pace up and down, while at the same time, attempting to master the confounded Bach fugue that had been troubling me for weeks now. These activities proved too difficult accomplish simultaneously and I soon gave up the pacing and concentrated solely on the violin.

I made it to the third page, and so engrossed was I in the horrid trill that I only dimly registered the doorbell ring and thought no more about it. I really did not want to see Lestrade or anyone else for that matter. Not when I was in such a dreadful, black mood, at any rate.

That is, I thought no more about it until I was abruptly scared half out of even my iron nerve when my landlady shrieked at the top of her voice, jarring me so completely I almost threw the instrument across the room.

Dropping the Stradivarius on the couch, I dashed for the door to the hall, bellowing to Mrs. Hudson and demanding to know what the deuce she meant, screaming at a fellow like that.

The words died on my lips as I saw, with horror, the body lying sprawled in the hall just inside the door.

Watson.

I took the seventeen steps three at a time, nearly tripping over the last set in my haste, and skidded to a stop beside the hysterical Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, what the devil's happened?" I asked, my own panic making the words come out harsher than I intended them to be.

Thank God! Watson had a pulse. It was slow, very slow, but it was there.

"I…I don't know, Mr. Holmes," the poor woman sobbed, "he…he just c-collapsed in front of me when I opened the door, sir!"

"Send for a doctor, at once," I ordered, moving into the light so that I could better see my poor friend.

As I did so, I noted Watson's condition. We had been through a good many fights together, but never had I seen him this badly off before. It took no great deduction to perceive the severity and ferocity behind the attack, and the thought turned my stomach into a churning, roiling mess of nausea.

The sensation quickly turned to a cold, murderous rage against the party responsible for this atrocity.

How I cursed myself for my earlier desire that something violent would happen! What had I been thinking?

As Mrs. Hudson came into the hall to leave from the front door, I tried to gently move Watson out of the way so as to allow her passage...and I was both relieved and alarmed to hear him stir and mumble something undistinguishable.

"Hurry, Mrs. Hudson!" I barked after the woman's retreating figure

"Watson, can you hear me, old fellow?" I whispered, wishing to heaven my voice would stop its' confounded trembling.

His mutterings went on incoherently. I caught a word, Andrew?...was that really it? And then he moaned a little as I gently took his hand,trying to bring him to consciousness.

"Watson? Watson, can you hear me?" I asked again, and this time he seemed to respond, mumbling what I thought was my name…but his eyes never opened.

"Watson, who did this?" I asked slowly, forcing that tremor out of my voice so that it would be clear and steady enough for him to understand.

"Two, Holmes," he whispered, then his hand tightened convulsively in mine as a cough shook his body and rattled in his lungs. Not a good sign; it spoke of damaged ribs or, worse, internal injuries I could not see.

And heaven only knew his external ones were bad enough.

"Two men, Watson?"

"Two, H'mes," came the words again, slightly slurred, and his hand clenched

again round mine.

"Why, Watson? What did they want?"

"Don't…know…Andrew…don'…know…H'mes…" his words were rambling, disjointed now, and I was about to try again when I felt his hand go completley limp in mine.

"Watson!" My first reaction was, I am not ashamed to admit, absolute,uncontrolled, terrified panic…until I realized he still breathed.

It was not until I found his weak pulse again that I realized I had been holding my breath, and I finally let it out with a painful hiss. He was unconscious once more.

He was free from the pain, for a little while at least.

How long I sat there in the hall, with Watson's cold hand in mine, my mind in utter turmoil, I have no idea…for it was not until the still-distraut Mrs. Hudson returned with the doctor, that I paid any attention to my surroundings.

With two terse sentences, the man introduced himself as Sir Leslie Oakshott, a Harley Street surgeon…his offices were not far from this flat…and ordered me to help him get Watson upstairs.

There was no way to carry him all the way up yet another flight, and so I was more than glad to turn my own bedroom over to the doctor's purposes. Then, without preamble, Oakshott brusquely dismissed me from the room and shut the door rather rudely after me.

I stared at the shut door of my own bedroom, angered by the man's curtness…but if he would help Watson, then I supposed I could stand the fellow for as long as necessary.

And for the second time in as many hours, I found myself pacing up and down the sitting room, using every ounce of my formidable self-control to squash each emotion that came bubbling to the forefront of my distraught mind.

Who could have inflicted such a merciless and senseless outrage…and why upon Watson? The dear chap would never harm an insect…he had no enemies that I knew of, and indeed he deserved none; never had I met a more selfless, considerate, forgiving man in my life!

Who then could have done this?

As my deductive powers over and over again continued to come up short against a blank wall, I grew more and more angry with each passing moment…how dare they do this to Watson! The wounded man now lying on my bed was the most important person in the world to me!"

And no one, I had vowed long ago when we first started this odd but endearing partnership, no one touches Watson without answering to me.

And oh, how they would answer. And regret what they had done!

TBC...


	3. The Other Watches

"There is no permanent love but that which has duty for its eldest brother; so that if one sleeps the other watches, and honor is safe." - Pierre Jules Hetzel

Chapter Three: "The Other Watches"

**_Holmes:_**

Never had our rooms in Baker Street seemed so confining. The sitting room was too small for my agitated pacing, and I would have stalked out into the streets to brood were it not for the fact that my dearest friend lay wounded in the next room.

Again my mind rebelled at the thought.

Who would have the audacity to harm Watson?!

I wracked my brain, going over and over again any villains of past cases who might bear my friend a grudge. But they had all been dispatched or imprisoned by my own hand…

Who then? And why two men? Why at all…what did they want from Watson?

Not to kill him or the damage would be far more severe – revenge, then?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the sitting room door. I turned on my heel, startled…I had not even heard the footsteps.

"Come in." I barked, wishing fervently that whoever it was would do just the opposite.

Mrs. Hudson peered cautiously in…"Mr. Holmes -"

She broke off as the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade pushed past her.

He was smiling, his face alight. I felt my blood begin to boil.

"Mr. Holmes," he said in that obnoxious voice which grated against my tattered nerves, "There's been a murder. A very prestigious gentleman, Sir Edward Darling! His house was broken into last night, and his wife is hysterical…seems that their large silver collection has been…"

I was almost unaware of the rising heat in my face and of the clenching of my fists. The anger that had been rising steadily since Watson's attack seized this new agitation and I felt my thin patience snap.

"Get out." My voice was cold and hard, and I could feel that I was physically shaking.

"What?" Lestrade said, his enthusiasm melting, completely taken aback.

"I said get out, Inspector!" The Yarder took a step backward and Mrs. Hudson tugged knowingly on his arm. "I will be taking no more cases at the present time...I have no need of your petty problems!"

Lestrade gaped like a fish…struggling to find words.

"I am not interested!" I snapped, uncaring of how harsh my voice was.

Mrs. Hudson had fled.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked finally. "Are you ill? Where is Dr. Watson?"

The image of my dear friend lying unconscious, of his blood pooling in our entryway, flashed through my mind.

"OUT, INSPECTOR!" Lestrade leapt in surprise. "Go back to the rest of the fools at the Yard! And leave me out of your sordid affairs!"

I had unconsciously started for the smaller man, and with a terrified glance at my face, he turned and bolted from the room. I could hear his hurried footsteps as he fled down the steps.

I stood…still shaking…my hands numb and my knuckles white, breathing heavily.

After a time I realized how very emotional my outburst had been and I forcibly took control of my rampaging temper.

This would not help Watson…nor would it help me. I must think.

I stalked to the fireplace and seized a pipe from the mantle. After several moments I managed to light it and forced myself to sit in my armchair though my body protested inactivity.

I snorted at the irony in it. Three hours ago I had been longing for the needle and the release of cocaine - now all my faculties were a raging torrent and though I had a most important puzzle to put them to, I could not think for the emotions raging through me.

Think…I had to think.

If I did not my mind would wander again to the battered man lying in the next room.

I had to have facts…but there was so little to go on.

Two men…a savage beating…and a name…a name that Watson, even in his delirious state, thought important enough to repeat.

Andrew.

I snorted again, and took a long draught from my pipe to calm myself.

I knew very few Andrews…there was a fellow at the Yard…a sergeant. But he was nearly as amiable as Watson and could have nothing to do with this.

Whoever it was had to be close to Watson, my friend addressed very few people by their Christian names - not even me.

But if there was a person in Watson's past named Andrew I had no knowledge of it. In fact, I realized with a pang of guilt, I knew very little about my friend's past. He was as reticent about it as I was about my own.

Perhaps that was the cause…had my own reticence discouraged such topics in our conversations?

I was interrupted again by the opening of a door, and my heart fairly leaped into my throat when I realized that it was the door to my bedroom.

I sprang up from my seat to face Oakshott, as he left the room and closed the door softly behind him.

"Well?" I gasped, unable to contain myself.

He looked at me, his face serious. Then he spoke in a slow, deliberate manner that I found positively infuriating.

"I have given him some morphine…the dosage should last two or three hours."

"What of his injuries?" I interrupted. "How badly is he hurt - will he - " the words caught in my throat.

"He will recover," Oakshott said, "provided he gets the rest he needs…his injuries are serious but by no means critical."

I started for the door and was stopped as the physician put out a hand to stop me

"He has suffered a minor concussion, three fractured ribs, and a sprained wrist. The damage to his ribs caused some internal bleeding and some little stress to his lungs, but both have been seen to. He has multiple bruises and some abrasions but I have stitched them."

I felt my temperature rising again but held my temper at bay.

"Keep him quiet, Mr. Holmes." The doctor gave me a stern and knowing look. "If he is careful, then he shall not need my services again."

Oakshott moved to the coat rack, giving me further instructions; but I paid little attention…my concentration was completely shot by this time.

Donning his coat and hat, Oakshott picked up his bag and moved to the door.

"I shall send along my bill, Mr. Holmes…and make certain he uses the sling for his wrist."

Then he was gone…and like a hound released from its leash I surged into my bedroom.

Watson lay beneath the covers of the bed, and now that his wounds had been treated I could see their true extent for the first time.

His right wrist was wrapped, as was the ugly bruise and gash on his head. His otherwise bare chest had been wound with thick gauze around his middle to support his ribs. The right side of his face was almost unrecognizable for the swelling and his pale skin was colored here and there with severe bruising.

I noted with puzzlement that the knuckles on his right hand had been bandaged. Then I smiled - Watson had fought fiercely against his attackers…and had skinned the knuckles.

It would have been a hopeless fight…two probably armed men against one. But he had fought anyway.

"Oh my dear Watson…" I breathed. Falling into a chair beside the bed of my still friend. "Who would do this to you?"

He was the only one who had the answers to this mystery….and he was incapable of answering.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle…it was half past one now. It would be several hours before he awoke…

I had to be patient…and in the meantime I would watch.

No one else would touch Watson tonight.

I settled back in the chair with my face in my cupped hand to wait.

TBC…


	4. A Brother Your Heart Chose

"A brother is a friend God gave you; a friend is a brother your heart chose for you." -Proverb

Chapter Four: "A Brother Your Heart Chose"

_**Watson:**_

My struggle back to consciousness was not a pleasant or an easy task – I fought desperately to make my way out of the confused muddle the medication had made out of my senses, trying to rise above the turgid darkness of the pain reliever.

As I futilely struggled to move, to get out from under that black cloud of unconsciousness, I was dimly aware of a familiar voice – where had I heard that voice before? – pressing my shoulders gently back to the mattress, telling me to lie still, that everything was all right.

A sharp pain shot through my chest, and I moaned at the agony of it, my dazed mind attempting to understand what was going on – and the voice intensified, its earnest pleading with me to not move was so familiar; where was it coming from?

I tried to make it toward the voice, but even as I did so, that black cloud swirled up around my senses once more and I heard the voice fading away into nothingness.

I do not know how much later it was that I finally opened my eyes, to find that my mind was somewhat clear – that hazy muddle had receded at last.

The first sensations I became aware of were a sharp pain in my chest as I drew a deep breath, and a dull throbbing in my head. One of my wrists seemed to be aching rather sharply, secured in some fashion.

The second thing I realized was that Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a chair beside my bed, my free hand grasped between both of his, looking at me anxiously.

"Holmes?" I whispered, my voice rather hoarse.

"How are you feeling, Watson?" he asked me, letting go of my hand and seating himself on the edge of the bed so I would not have to turn my head to look at him.

"I – don't know," I said, coughing as my breath choked in my throat, "What happened?"

"I was hoping you would be able to tell me, my dear fellow," my friend said, his grey eyes looking worriedly into mine.

I tried to remember – but everything was a blur; I could not for the life of me recall what had happened – when was it? Last night?

"What time is it, Holmes?" I whispered.

"After five in the morning, Watson," he replied, and I was puzzled as to why his voice was so unusually tremulous, "you have been unconscious for nearly eight hours."

"Eight?" I was trying desperately to process the information, - the haze surrounding my brain was clearing somewhat.

I took a sharp breath as the events of the preceding night suddenly came back to me, and a flash of pain shot through my ribcage.

At my strained gasp, Holmes bent close over me, his face creasing with deep lines of worry as he gently patted my shoulder.

"Easy, Watson. That's enough – you must rest now."

"No, Holmes!" the events were now falling back into place with incredible rapidity, and I started to sit up, suddenly remembering what my attackers had said – Andrew! What had my brother to do with this?

As I raised myself, my head began to spin and I grew extremely dizzy – Holmes quickly grasped my shoulders and tried to push me back down to my pillow.

"Watson, lie down, for heaven's sake!" he gasped as I gripped his arm with my free hand, trying to make him understand.

"Holmes – Andrew – they – they said – " I was trying to tell him my attackers' words, but the room, including his worried countenance, simply would not stay in one place – confusing me dreadfully.

"Watson!" I heard Holmes say frantically, just before everything spun so fast that it felt as though I were falling – down and down, into a black hole.

When the darkness faded and my vision was clearing, I saw Holmes's petrified face close to mine.

"Watson, you certainly have a talent for frightening a fellow half to death," he breathed, sitting back a little – he knew I hated to have people bending over me.

"Sorry – Holmes," I whispered, heartily ashamed of my weakness.

"Shh, my dear fellow – everything's all right. You have to rest now," he said, his tone more gentle than I had ever heard before.

"No," I weakly protested, "I have to – to tell you –"

"Not now," he replied softly, straightening out the tangled blanket and coverlet on my bed, "it can wait until later. You've been very badly hurt, Watson – you _must_ rest now."

Indeed, my whole body ached, besides the obvious not-normal sharp stabbing in my chest and my wrist, which I could see was in a tight sling close to my body.

My head persisted in throbbing quite painfully, and as I tried to move, I winced, unsuccessfully trying to restrain a low choked cry.

But Holmes heard it, and his worried face became even more drawn.

"I'm going to give you some morphine, Watson," he said, when my eyes had once more focused on his pale face.

"No, Holmes."

"Yes, Watson!" he said emphatically.

"Let me speak first, and then you may give me some," I weakly remonstrated, his intense tone pounding into my aching head.

"Watson," he said warningly.

"Holmes, I must tell you – I – I need you," I said hoarsely, remembering bits and pieces of the conversation.

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed once more.

"You mustn't talk very long," he admonished.

"May I remind you that I am the doctor," I whispered with a weak smile, trying to lighten that dark look on his face.

"And may I remind you that you could have _died_ last night!"

His abnormally intense voice trembled with absolutely no trace of lightness, and I stared at him. He was sitting there, staring at his shaking hands which were folded in his lap to disguise the fact that they were indeed trembling violently, and I realized that I must really have given him quite a fright.

I tried to move, to pat his arm and reassure him all was well, but the movement sent another pain through my chest – I must have broken ribs – and I closed my eyes with a hiss.

"Watson, for heaven's sake, let me give you something –"

"Not yet Holmes, please listen to me," I begged, opening my eyes once more to focus slightly unsteadily on his anxious face.

He nodded mutely, and I tried to recount to him all that had happened on my way home the previous night.

He listened intently, occasionally patting my hand when I had to stop and take a breath because of my head spinning so badly, and I told him about the mention they had made of my brother's name.

"Are you certain of that, Watson?"

"Quite – quite certain, Holmes," I said, my hand clenching convulsively as I took too deep a breath and pain rattled through my lungs.

Breathing hard, I closed my eyes once more, and I heard Holmes rise and a moment later the clinking of bottles.

l

"You must rest now, Watson," he said a moment later, and I was too weak to argue as he administered the morphine – unfortunately, he _was_ rather proficient at the art of injection – and I tried to hurry with my tale before the medicine took effect.

"Andrew died last winter, Holmes," I whispered, "I – I do not know how; we were not told particulars, for he was in Scotland at the time."

"Scotland. When in the winter, Watson?"

"January," I said, desperately fighting to keep my eyes from closing.

"January of this year, then," Holmes repeated, as my eyelids drooped tiredly.

"January," I repeated, my breathing becoming slightly labored as I struggled to draw a breath without straining my ribcage, "Andrew – find out – please, Holmes?"

"I shall, Watson, I promise. Sleep now, my dear fellow," he replied softly, pulling the coverlet up around my shoulders.

I was only too glad to comply, easy in the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes would be able to solve the matter and find out everything – it was more than safe in his capable hands.

TBC…


	5. Let Brother Help Brother

"Let brother help brother." – Plato

Chapter 5: "Let Brother Help Brother"

_**Holmes:**_

After Watson had fallen once more under the effects of the morphine injection, I stood for a moment looking at my friend, willing myself to remember every single horrid part of his injuries – I would need the visions as fuel for energy to get me through what promised to be a very long day.

I had not slept, naturally, and so I was more than grateful for Mrs. Hudson's kind thoughtfulness in bringing a pot of strong coffee up into the sitting room.

I asked her to send for Wiggins and a handful of the little urchins Watson and I had dubbed the Baker Street Irregulars – I had work to do but I needed someone to watch Watson and the house in my absence.

After the door had closed behind the woman, I poured my third cup of coffee and downed it in two gulps – very nearly burning myself in the process. My mind was not on my own comfort, however, but upon the last words of the man lying unconscious in the next room.

His impassioned plea for me to find out what the connection was between his attackers and his late brother was incentive enough for me to get at once to work – but the look of complete loving trust in his eyes when I promised I would, just before he lost consciousness once more, was even greater motivation still.

I would not let the morning go by without learning everything there was to know about Andrew Watson's death in Scotland.

And to do so, I knew I needed faster action than the police could give to me. Besides, I thought ruefully, Lestrade probably unwilling to see me for quite some time yet. I could only vaguely remember what I had said to the poor man, but I did remember it not being very courteous or patient.

Another reason why I did not endorse a lack of emotional control – sometimes the resulting scenarios got rather uncomfortable.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of feet upon the stairs, but not the normal cacophony of voices that usually accompanied the arrival of my personal police force – I vaguely realized it was only a quarter-past six – was noticeably absent, and a moment later, the sitting room door opened.

Wiggins, my lieutenant, and five of his lads stumbled quickly into the room and stood at sleepy attention, their normally bright eyes mere slits. They appeared to be half-asleep yet, and were yawning loudly.

"Came right off, Mr. 'Olmes," Wiggins said with a prodigious yawn, "Cor, oi sure 'ope you got somethin' right important a' this bleedin' hour of the mornin'!"

"I do, Wiggins," I assured his little band, offering them the plate of scones Mrs. Hudson had left with the coffee – my appetite was completely non-existent – and the lads instantly brightened up and proceeded to stuff their mouths with my landlady's cooking.

"Blimey, Mr. 'Olmes, this is fair murder. Can oi 'ave some coffee?" Wiggins asked, stifling another yawn.

I was dubious as to the effects of the drink on the ragged bunch but said I did not care, and soon the six lads were looking slightly more alert than they had been.

But the volume of their voices rose in accordance with their waking up, and I had to quiet them rather harshly.

"Sorry, Mr. 'Olmes. Is the Doctor still abed, yet?" One of the lads asked.

In a few terse sentences, I explained what had happened, and it warmed my troubled heart to see the boys' faces darken with anger that mirrored my own.

"Wiggins, I want you to remain here, in the sitting room. Watson should not even begin to awake up for another four to six hours, and I should be back before then. Stay awake, lad, for I need you to be watchful," I told my lieutenant.

"All right, chums. Billy, you an' Charlie sit yerselves across th' street an' keep an eye out for any more trouble," Wiggins began directing the boys without waiting for instructions from me – I was astounded at the lad's perception. Could he tell that I really felt in no way up to giving orders?

"Alfie, you an' Bert are goin' ta be runnin' up and down Baker Street, careful like, watchin' out for any blokes wot have a Scotch accent – if'n you spot one o' the blighters, you come back 'ere and throw a pebble a' th' window there, see?"

"Right, mate," the two boys replied in unison, snatching another scone.

"An' Rat, you scarper int' that empty 'ouse across th' way there, keep a sharp eye out for any bloke wot looks like 'e's out o' place on Baker Street, y' hear? You know wot to do if'n you see anybody wot looks suspicious."

Wiggins looked to me for approval. "Anythin' else, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"No, lad," I replied, a genuine smile coming to my face for the first time in twenty-four hours, "Off with you all – the usual pay; I shall give it to Wiggins upon my return. And two shillings extra apiece, for getting you all up at such an indecent hour."

The ragged bunch began to cheer, but I cringed at the noise and Wiggins silenced them on the instant.

"Right, Mr. 'Olmes. Now scarper, lads. 'Ere, Alfie! Leave tha' on the table!"

One of the boys had tried to sneak off with the bowl of sugar cubes. Now shamefaced, he put the bowl back and the group left the house in a rapid rush of feet.

I turned to Wiggins, who was looking at me with that peculiarly piercing gaze that spoke of the wisdom beyond his years that he had been required to learn as a street urchin.

"It'll be all right, sir," he said to me.

I was surprised at the boy's perception once again.

"I'm sure th' doctor'll be just fine. You'd best be off, Mr. 'Olmes."

"Wiggins, you are a fine lad," I responded, smiling at the boy, "I shall be back later."

"Right, sir," he said, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

"And Wiggins?" I turned as I put on my overcoat and snatched my hat.

"Yes, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Easy on the coffee, if you please," I said reprovingly, and then, allowing my voice to soften, went on, "and take care of Dr. Watson."

"Don't you worry 'bout 'im, Mr. 'Olmes. 'E wouldn't want you to, y'know," the boy said wisely, seating himself in my armchair and leaning back in front of the fire.

He did not see the wide smile that spread across my face as I turned and went down the seventeen steps.

I took a cab straight to my brother's rooms along Pall Mall and within a half hour of leaving Baker Street was banging forcefully on Mycroft's door.

He was most definitely _not_ thrilled to see me, taking almost a full five minutes to come to the door clad in a dressing-gown and slippers.

Had the situation not been so very serious, I might have found amusement in trying to figure out where in the world he had located a dressing-gown large enough for his girth, but at the time, my brother's weight issue was the farthest thing from my mind.

His watery grey eyes stared at me for a moment in silence, and then without a word he opened the door to allow me passage.

When the door had closed behind us, Mycroft turned and looked at me.

"What has happened, Sherlock?" his tone was kinder than I had expected out of him – he had never been appreciative of being woken up.

But his deductive faculties are even sharper than my own; and it was not difficult to perceive from my wrinkled clothing and haggard features that I had been up all night.

He waved me to a settee and then sank his ponderous girth into an armchair.

"Sherlock. Answer the question, if you please," he went on, an irritated tone creeping into his voice – brother mine shining through at last, "and it had better be a great deal more important than a petty case issue!"

In a few words I detailed what had happened the night before. When my voice shook slightly halfway through the story, he raised his eyebrows at me, and I flushed with embarrassment. Hurrying through the rest of my tale, I told him I needed his help.

"I am dreadfully sorry to hear this, Sherlock," he said, not unkindly, "but I fail to see why you should come to me – cannot the police help you?"

"There isn't time for that, Mycroft!" I cried, standing to my feet and starting to pace up and down, "I need results! Results in just a few hours! Only you have the influence to get that kind of information from Scotland! Your powers combined with your influence are the only things that can help me!"

"Sherlock, do stop that infernal pacing and loud racket – you'll have the entire household up!" he growled irritably as I continued my rapid steps.

"What do you wish me to do then, brother?" I asked sarcastically as I stopped obediently and turned to face him, my short temper on its last vestige of control.

"For one thing, sit down and get hold of yourself!" Mycroft snapped, "You're not doing the Doctor any good by running yourself into the ground!"

At his words, my composure finally crumbled, and I sank into the nearest chair, putting my head in my hands. And I realized for the first time just how tired I really was.

Yet another reason why I do not encourage emotional demonstrations.

"Sherlock."

I raised my head wearily.

My brother was looking at me quizzically, but not without some sympathy.

"I am sorry, Mycroft," I said quietly, all the fight gone out of me for the moment.

"Brother, I – sometimes am rather impatient by nature," I started at Mycroft's colossal understatement, "I shall do what I can. When the office opens at eight – I cannot get into work before that, Sherlock."

"Thank you," I said, a weight lifting from my heart at his even words.

"Now, Sherlock, get your emotions under a firm grip. And then tell me everything you know about the Doctor's brother," Mycroft directed me, and gratefully I took my elder sibling's advice.

I took a deep breath, clearing my mind of all but the cold, bare facts. Then I told Mycroft the little Watson had been able to tell me.

"That is everything, Sherlock?"

"What else were you expecting, Mycroft? He was half-senseless at the time of the attack!" my eyes flashed in anger as I thought of my dearest friend being beaten while lying helpless on a cold sidewalk.

"No, no, no, Sherlock. Surely you know more about his family than that bit? I mean, surely at _some_ point in these seven years of your living together you have discussed familial relations?"

My brother's words, uttered innocently enough, were yet another stark reminder of how rarely I really did encourage personal conversation – indeed, I had not even know Watson _had_ a brother until last spring when we were engaged in the Sholto murder.

Sudden realization struck me, and I very nearly tumbled off my chair with the import of it.

The Sholto murder! The watch! Watson's watch!

"The watch!" I exclaimed, realizing its' significance for the first time.

"Sherlock, will you please do me the favor of giving me information, not disjointed phrases!" Brother's patience was wearing thin with me, as usual. "Facts, Sherlock. Facts."

"Watson's pocket-watch was given to Andrew Watson by his father, who died some years back, and was passed on to Watson when his brother died last January. I'd forgotten about it – he had me deduce his brother's history from it as a deductive exercise last spring."

"And? Come now, Sherlock!"

"If I remember correctly, I had deduced that his brother had taken to drink and died a broken man," I said, my brow furrowing at the realization that this conclusion did not quite mesh with the idea of two men beating and threatening Watson over some issue connected with his brother's death.

Mycroft's face mirrored my own.

"Are you certain your deductions were correct, Sherlock? That is not in the least bit logical," he voiced my own thoughts.

I colored uncomfortably.

"Sherlock?"

"Well – " I stopped, rather ashamed to admit my vices even to my older brother, who already knew of them.

"Out with it, Sherlock! I have not the time or taste for pointless drivel!"

"Well, at the time I had just taken a dose of – of cocaine, Mycroft, and I suppose I could have been slightly mistaken," I admitted finally, heartily ashamed of myself.

His brows knitted, and he glared at me.

"You suppose."

"Mycroft, I am not here to be lectured by you!"

"No, Sherlock, you are here for my help, and I am _going_ to help you – but you must get hold of that watch again. I shall go to the office and set in motion the necessary inquiries. As soon as I have information for you, I shall meet you back at Baker Street."

I stared at my brother in disbelief. Mycroft Holmes, actually _offering_ to come to Baker Street instead of making me come to his club?

That one thing told me my brother really was worried about me and about Watson, and that was all I needed to know.

"Thank you, brother mine," I said seriously as I rose to leave.

"Get that watch, Sherlock, and any other facts you can from Watson when he awakens. And for heaven's sake watch yourself, and him!" Mycroft's portly face was creased with a large worry wrinkle as he showed me to the door.

But I left Pall Mall in slightly better spirits than when I had arrived – my more intelligent older brother was on the case as well.

Between the two of us, the villains responsible for harming Watson would not stand the ghost of a chance.

And now I was free to bring my own powers of deduction to bear. And I would begin by tracking down the villains who had committed the act.

Watson had mentioned the smell of cheap ale on the breath of his attackers…and that was clue enough to begin with.

Grateful now for the pent up energy that had so aggravated me earlier, I set out to explore the familiar byways and taverns of the London underworld. I had found my thread…and by heaven I would follow it.

TBC…


	6. A Brother's Help

"To hunt tigers one must have a brother's help." - Chinese Proverb

Chapter 6: "A Brother's Help"

**_Watson:_**

There are few things I dislike more than effects of medication.

This occasion was no exception. My limbs were heavy and unresponsive, and I was more comfortable than I should be, as though I would sink through the mattress upon which I lay.

My groggy mind stirred in confusion. In such a state I should not have awoken…that must have been a fairly heavy dose of morphine - so why was I awake?

I roused my faculties and drove through the wool-like, drug-induced stupor and opened my eyes.

The room was dark and peaceful, and for the first time…I realized it was Holmes' room. I groaned at the paralyzing lethargy in my limbs and looked about me…my mind growing more lucid with every movement.

The clock above Holmes' mantle read 12 noon….I had been asleep for over 12 hours. And I did not even know the extent of my own injuries.

As if in response to my thoughts a sharp pain shot through my chest and I groaned. My ribs were fractured then…and from the ache in my head I probably also had a concussion. I could feel numerous bruises and other smaller aches, and worst of all, my wrist, which I realized was bound neatly in a sling.

I cursed under my breath…wincing at the pain it sent through my sore chest.

And then I heard it…

The sound that had woken me.

A very loud, very high voice.

"Old on 'ere! Yew can' go in there, gov'!"

A second voice joined the first.

"I am a patient man my lad…but I have my limits!"

"Oi don't care 'oo you say you are…Mr. 'Olmes gave 'is orders."

With a start of amusement I realized that I recognized both voices.

The youthful voice was undoubtedly that of Wiggins, our little street urchin, and the other…it couldn't be…Mycroft?! In Baker Street?!

But where the deuce was Holmes?

I threw back the covers clumsily with my left hand, and with a tedious effort sat up.

The effort left me gasping and clutching my bound ribs, my head spun a little…I closed my eyes took several deep breaths and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

I stood on shaky legs, steadied myself against the bedpost…then made my way to the door, snatching one of Holmes's dressing gowns along the way. The scene that revealed when I opened the door would have made me chuckle were I not concerned for my ribs, which were already panging sharply.

Mycroft stood, looking very out of place as usual and mopping his broad brow with a large white handkerchief. Wiggins stood before him with his back to me, like a small ragtag guard.

"You don' look nothin' like Mr. 'Olmes!" the boy said shrilly,

Mycroft spotted me in the entrance and his agitated face cleared. "Ah, Doctor…at last. Is this urchin - ?"

Wiggins spun about and spoke in a still much too shrill voice. " Doctor Watson!...Mr. 'Olmes told us you was…"

"I'm fine." I said, leaning on the doorframe and wiping the sweat that stung my eyes. "Where is Holmes?'

"He left my rooms several hours ago…this…boy, says he doesn't know."

"Ee's not likely to tell us is 'ee?" Wiggins shrilled, spinning again on his heel.

I frowned - was it my condition or was the lad acting strangely? His little face was red beneath his grimy hair, and his pupils were rather large…his movements were twitchy.

I looked to the table…where the remains of a breakfast lay, including a large coffee pot.

Ah.

"Ee sent for us, Doctor." The lad said defensively…" 'ee said to watch out for you and this bloke…"

"It's all right Wiggins…" I said wearily, swaying a little "This gentleman is Mr. Holmes'..."

Mycroft's eyes grew grave with concern and he moved forward. "Doctor…perhaps you should not be up yet."

Wiggins leapt in front of him, shouting threats at the elder of the Holmes' brothers…his arms outstretched protectively.

Mycroft frowned and tried to speak over the high, youthful voice.

" Wiggins…" I started but was arrested by a cough that further aggravated my ribs.

There were rapid footsteps on the stairs and the door banged open to admit another of Holmes' ragged irregulars, his ginger hair flying wildly, his face flushed. He spoke just as shrilly as Wiggins…but with excitement rather than caffeine.

"Wig!" he gasped between breaths, "We seen im!...There's a right up the street!... Bert's watchin im…'ee's 'eaded this way…" the boy stopped suddenly as he took in Mycroft looming over his captain. Then with a warlike yell the urchin flew to Wiggins's defense.

Utter chaos ensued, and it was impossible to communicate with the cacophony that rang through the room.

Through the midst of it all not one of us took notice of the thin, seedy-looking man who stepped through the open door.

Nor until his voice rang like a lash through the noise.

"That's enough!"

All four of us turned…the boys hanging off of Mycroft, and I leaning heavily against the doorframe.

The man scowled.

" Watson!" he started for me, shedding soiled coat and wig as he went. "What in heaven's name are you doing up!?"

He took me by the arm and led me to the sofa, pushing me gently onto it. Then he whirled on the other three.

"Mycroft, Wiggins...what happened?!"

I seized hold of my friend's arm as the boys skipped away from Mycroft guiltily and stood at attention. Mycroft continued to mop his brow.

Holmes looked down at me…and I could tell by the hard, weary lines on his face that he was frustrated as well as surprised.

"A slight misunderstanding Holmes." I rasped. "Where have you been?"

"Did you find them Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, finally putting away his handkerchief.

It took me a moment to realize what the elder Holmes' sharper intellect had already deduced. Holmes in a disguise of that sort could mean only one thing.

"You went after them?!" I gasped trying to sit up again.

Holmes laid a restraining hand on my shoulder. His face hard and his eyes worried. "Sit still Watson."

I opened my mouth to object and the hand tightened warningly. "In a moment Watson." He turned to his brother, "Mycroft, take a seat…I'm sorry for my absence. .I've just seen Mrs. Hudson downstairs…she's preparing lunch."

The detective strode to the irregulars, digging in his pocket. Mycroft collapsed gratefully on a chair.

Wiggins was biting his lip and he held his hands behind his back. "Mr. 'Olmes…"

Holmes forced a strained smile. "You did very well, Wiggins. You and the lads are to head home now…here's your wages." He dropped a pile of coins into the lad's hands

Their eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and Wiggins gaped.

"Never mind, Wiggins, you've earned it…off with you now."

"Yes sir, Mr. 'Olmes!" Wiggins pocketed their newly acquired wealth and saluted. "We'll be ready if'n you call for us."

And just as quickly they were gone…whooping on the stairs as they went.

Holmes closed the door behind them and deflated with a weary sigh. Slowly he crossed the room and collapsed in the chair opposite Mycroft.

"No luck?" His brother said, but it was a statement, not a question.

Holmes shook his head irritably. "Any traces were destroyed by the rain and the traffic…not enough to go on." My friend straightened a little and fixed his stare on Mycroft. "What of your end?"

I took a rattling breath " Holmes…what do you mean?"

"He's been investigating your brother's death Watson. Sit still."

But this latest development sent a surge of energy through me and my discomfort faded somewhat. I turned to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes sighed and smiled thinly. "I am sorry Doctor…but for once my archives seemed to have failed me. He was inebriated and fell off a sharp bank beside the road…dying instantly. There is nothing more."

Holmes cursed loudly at this and sprang to his feet, beginning to pace. Mycroft frowned at him "Sherlock, for heaven's sake!"

"I need material, Mycroft!" he growled distractedly.

Mycroft turned back to me with a sigh. "My brother said you received a watch from your late brother, Doctor Watson…may I see it?"

I was puzzled. " Andrew's watch?...certainly."

I struggled to sit up, and could not quite hold back a groan.

Holmes appeared behind me, restraining me again, but with a more gentle hand. "Stay there Watson…I shall fetch it."

I nodded and sank back…"It's on my desk."

Holmes crossed the room…picked up the small pocket-watch and handed it to Mycroft.

He examined it for a few moments, more rapidly than Holmes was apt to do, and at last set it on his knee.

"You were right, Sherlock, about your deductions concerning the man. So…" he shifted in his seat to look at his brother. "…according to all our sources Andrew Watson died a tragic but thoroughly unsuspicious death."

"Then what grudge do these blackguards bear Watson!?"

"I don't know." Mycroft's tone was curt and irritated.

Holmes sighed and leaned against the mantle. "That's it then…the last thread is cut."

At that moment Mrs. Hudson walked into the room holding a very large tray of food.

Mycroft's face lit up visibly, and I chuckled and coughed. I was rather hungry myself…

Our landlady set the table and left discreetly with the dirty breakfast dishes.

"Well…" Mycroft said, "You won't be worth anything to anyone, Sherlock, if you collapse of starvation. Go get yourself cleaned up and the Doctor and I will begin on this excellent meal."

His eyes held genuine concern as he looked at his much thinner brother…their grey depths scanning over Holmes shadowed, unshaven face.

"You're appearance could be improved somewhat, Holmes." I said.

The detective looked up from his moody pondering and smiled thinly. "Very well, Watson. But it is too soon for you to be about on your own…Mycroft would you…"

The elder Holmes nodded and took my arm to help me rise, much to my embarrassment.

We ate in silence which suited all concerned as I had to concentrate with the use of only one arm and Mycroft was too intent on the food for conversation anyway.

After a time Holmes emerged looking cleaner but no less aggravated, and he sat in thoughtful silence while we finished the food.

Then after a few fruitless minutes of speculation the elder Holmes got to his feet.

"I am of no use to you, Sherlock…not right now…and I have duties that must be attended to."

Holmes nodded. "Very well Mycroft…stay in touch; I may need you yet."

Mycroft smiled, "Be careful Sherlock…Doctor."

He nodded to me and went to the door, putting on his hat and coat, and then he disappeared without another word.

TBC...


	7. Those Who Attempt

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers." - Quentin Tarantino

Chapter 7: "Those Who Attempt"

**_Holmes:_**

When the sitting room door had closed behind my brother's ponderous bulk, I took a moment to collect myself and remember everything we had learned so far.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I did not realize Watson was trying to get to his armchair until I heard a muffled cry of pain when he bumped into the edge of the couch and then grasped at the mantle for support.

I turned, ready to help him, but the stubborn chap waved me off and settled down gingerly in his chair, careful not to bump his injured arm.

I was worried about his being up and about – the man had nearly been beaten to death less than twenty-four hours ago – but in a battle of wills, I am not quite sure I should be able to win against Watson's stubborn tenacity.

I have lost many times to him in regards to my own health, and I doubted if I should be able to force him to yield until he – probably literally – dropped from exhaustion.

My fond thoughts dissipated when my attention was arrested by the man's movements – he had taken his pipe from the mantelpiece as he sat down, and now he was about to light it. Too late, he realized he had only one good arm and could not do so.

Frowning in embarrassment, face flushing, too proud to ask for help, my friend was about to shove the offending article into his dressing gown pocket when I walked softly over and knelt beside him, offering him a match.

With a rueful smile of thanks, he accepted my offer.

I grabbed a pipe of my own and seated myself across from him, studying him intently behind half-closed lids to see exactly how he was feeling. I could tell from his eyes that he was not as well as he pretended to be, and every wincing movement he made seemed to drive a stab of pain through myself as well.

Those men would pay – and they would pay dearly. I vowed it upon all I held sacred.

I was still carefully watching him for signs of his condition when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door and entered, telling us that a man was here to see Watson.

"I, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson asked, turning a puzzled look in the good woman's direction.

"Yes, Doctor," she replied. Then, turning her attention toward me, she went on, "But he does not look quite respectable, sir, if you ask me – I think he means trouble!"

Mrs. Hudson was rather prone to think that any person who did not wipe his feet before entering the house was trouble.

However, the woman's remarkable intuition had been correct on numerous occasions, and I had grudgingly learned not to discount it.

"Send him up, Mrs. Hudson," I said, my attention focused on her in the doorway.

"Very good, sir."

My eyes turned back toward Watson just in time to see an expression of extreme pain cross his face and his one good hand clench convulsively on the arm of the chair, the knuckles turning white.

"Watson!"

"I'm – I'm fine, Holmes," he gasped, "just – just moved the wrong way, I suppose."

I knew that he most certainly was _not_ fine, and my increasing anger at the two men I had spent a futile morning trying to trace became ten times deeper than before as I saw my friend gallantly endeavoring to not outwardly show his suffering.

I tried to rein in that rapidly increasing fury when I heard the footsteps of the visitor approaching the sitting room, as I stood near the fireplace.

Behind me, I heard movement, and I turned in time to see Watson almost stagger to his feet, leaning against the mantle.

"Sit down, Watson!"

"I am perfectly all right, Holmes," he said, glaring at me with more spirit than I should have expected out of the poor chap.

My remonstrance was cut off by the entrance of the visitor. The sight of his face instantly rang a loud alarm-bell in the back of my mind.

George Dickson – known in the criminal fraternity as Little Georgie – the man was no more than five-foot-three in height, and his nickname referred even more to his low-life ways than to his physical height.

He was small, and mean, and an altogether horridly repellent creature – poisonous as a snake and clever as a rat, specializing as an errand-boy and general hit-man for many of the higher-ups in the underworld.

I suddenly wished very much that I had a pistol in my pocket, and I laid a protective hand on Watson's shoulder.

I felt that he was shaking, but from weakness, not fear, for he had no idea who the man was.

"Dickson, what are you doing here?" I snapped, in no mood for any of his games.

"'Ere, now, Mr. 'Olmes, there's no need to get nasty!" the little man leered, glaring at me with beady eyes.

"State your business, Georgie," I said, my thinly veiled anger starting to seep through my cover.

"I ain't got no business wi' you, Mr. 'Olmes, I'm just 'ere to deliver this message to th' Doctor!" Georgie spat at me with venom, walking over to us and handing Watson a small envelope.

"What's this all about?" Watson asked tiredly, thoroughly confused.

"Couple o' blokes just wanted you to 'ave it," the man replied with a malicious smirk, "I hafta say I am rather surprised to see you up an' about, Doctor. From what _I_ heard, you didn't put up much of a fight, now did yeh? Pity they didn't do the job a littl' more carefully – _**AACK!**_"

At the man's insolent words, uttered in that sneaking, underhanded voice of contempt, I finally lost my battle for self-control and lunged for Dickson in a blind raging fury, my hands finding and closing around the ruffian's throat.

"Holmes, stop it!" I heard Watson snap, his thin patience at an end.

"How dare you!" I snarled, ignoring my friend, shoving the little weasel toward the sitting room door, "I should thrash you within an inch of your life!" Dickson's face was turning purple, both from fear _and_ a lack of oxygen,

"Holmes!" Watson called again, his voice strained

This was too much...I grabbed him by the back of the coat and all but threw the man down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson screamed as the fellow came flying to a stop in the hallway, slamming up against the wall with a resounding crack, and she stared at me, mouth agape, as I bellowed in a cold rage down at the man cowering near the door.

"So help me, Dickson, the next time I catch you around Baker Street again, I shall shoot you on the spot! Do you hear me? Now GET OUT, before I come down there!"

Dickson rushed from the hall, slamming the door after him, and with the sound of its shutting I realized I was shaking violently and breathing quite rapidly, my anger having taken complete control over me. And this was not the first time in the last twenty-four hours that that had happened.

I was very, very badly shaken by this business, and it took none of my great deductions to perceive that.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt a remonstrating hand on my heaving shoulder.

"Holmes, get back in here and sit down," I heard Watson whisper behind me.

I turned as his grip suddenly loosened and his legs wobbled; I was forced to grab his one good arm to keep him from falling.

"You are hardly the one to tell _me_ to sit down, Watson!" I said fiercely, my anger still evident in my tone.

He made some feeble reply and I guided him back to the couch, where he gingerly but heavily collapsed, breathing hard with his efforts.

Before I could begin my angry pacing, he grabbed my arm and yanked me down beside him on the sofa.

"Holmes," he said between rasping breaths, "you simply must calm down!"

At the earnestness in his voice and manner, I took a long deep breath, holding it for several seconds before letting it out with a slow hissing sound.

"That's - better," Watson said, leaning back into the cushions, a soft groan escaping him at another sudden pain.

"Watson, I am sorry," I began, somewhat calmer now, my main emotional concern at the moment being not my anger but rather that look of intense pain I could see in his eyes.

To my absolute surprise, the man began to laugh softly, wincing as the motion shook his battered ribcage.

"What exactly do you find so amusing about this, Doctor?" I asked in irritated amazement.

"You, Holmes," he said, a real smile crossing his face for the first time since the business started yesterday – was it only yesterday? – as he looked at me.

I snorted, and he laughed again.

"Really, Watson!"

I got up and stalked over to the mantelpiece, where I relit my pipe – and I could see in the mantle mirror that he was watching me, to see when I would begin to laugh at myself for my overreaction.

I would not give him the satisfaction, I vowed.

But after a few moments, when he asked if I really had indeed picked up the fellow and thrown the man down the seventeen steps, I finally lost my nerve and chuckled with him, realizing I did indeed, as Mycroft and Watson had both said, need to get a grip upon myself.

"All right, Watson, you had your laugh," I said, "now you must lie down for a while."

"It's only three in the afternoon, Holmes," he remonstrated with me, recognizing my inexorable will coming to the fore.

"And you need some more morphine, my dear chap. No, do not argue with me, Watson! You have been exceptionally good at hiding your pain, but I am Sherlock Holmes – I am trained to notice things that other people don't!" I hoped the care behind my stern tone would help him to surrender gracefully.

But he must have been in a good deal of pain, indeed, for he did not argue with me even at all – the events of the last few hours had completely drained his energy and adrenaline.

"All right, Holmes, but first we should open this – message, don't you think?"

In my anger, I had forgotten all about the reason for Little Georgie's visit. Watson handed me the envelope and cautiously leaned back, awaiting my deductions as to the missive.

"Hmm, plain white envelope that might be found in any writing desk. Dr. John Watson written on the front in pencil – block letters, to disguise the writing. Strong hand, though."

"Strong enough," my friend murmured, indicating his sprained wrist.

My brows knitted angrily at the remark, but I again took a deep breath and concentrated on pure, clear reason.

"Nothing more to be learned from the envelope," I said, seating myself beside Watson on the couch once more and handing it back to him, "you had better open it."

At the flash of embarrassment that flitted swiftly across his face, I realized my unthinking error.

"I am sorry, old chap, I keep forgetting," I said, kicking myself mentally for my insensitivity.

I took the letter back from him and gently slit it along the flap.

Inside was a short index card with writing on it – but that was not what attracted my attention at first.

Besides the note, a very singular object fell out of the envelope.

A thistle, dried while it was in bloom, with an odd plaid ribbon tied round its stem.

What in heaven's name did that mean?

I handed the plant to Watson, whose brow furrowed in an expression of puzzlement that matched my own.

"Thistles are the national flower of Scotland," he said to me, glancing at my studious face, "and this is a Tartan plaid – I can't identify to what clan it belongs. Why a thistle, Holmes?"

I had been aware of the significance of the two items in Scottish history, of course, but I had absolutely no idea of their connection with this case.

I took up the card and read the words printed on it in block letters.

And felt all the blood drain from my already haggard features.

"Holmes! What is the matter?"

I handed the card to him, and I saw his own face register the shock that had paralyzed mine.

The note simply read "WE KNOW YOU HAVE IT, DOCTOR. BE PREPARED TO HAND IT OVER, OR YOU WILL MEET THE SAME FATE AS ANDREW."

"It? Have what?" I asked him. "What do you have?"

"Of Andrew's? Just Father's watch and several books – he liked to write too, Holmes," my friend went on, grief clouding his already pained eyes, "several journals and other articles of his personal effects. He had no other immediate family still living, and so I had to sell everything that was not personal."

"Then you might not even have whatever it is that these chaps are after," I said, my face being overshadowed by a gnawing worry, "it could have been sold."

"Yes, I suppose so," he returned, another look of pain crossing his face as he leaned forward to pick up the thistle once more.

But my mind was not on the plant – it was on the part of the terse message that evidently Watson had not yet realized in his clouded mental state.

"_Be prepared to hand it over, or__**…meet the same fate as Andrew**__."_

To my mind, that meant only one possible logical deduction.

Andrew Watson did not die of drink, as I had deduced previously from Watson's watch.

He had been murdered.

TBC...


	8. Still Live On

_O Time and Change!—with hair as gray  
As was my sire's that winter day,  
How strange it seems, with so much gone  
Of life and love, to still live on!  
Ah, brother! only I and thou  
Are left of all that circle now,—  
The dear home faces whereupon  
That fitful firelight paled and shone._  
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892),

Chapter 8: "Still Live On"

_**Watson:**_

The afternoon's activities had greatly tired me…and my ribs as well as my head ached from my efforts, though I tried not to show it to Holmes.

I had no wish to worry the poor fellow further, not while he was in this state of agitation, with little sleep and no food. Running solely on coffee, tobacco, and his iron will, he was almost as likely to collapse as I.

But to Holmes's acute mind nothing could remain forever hidden, and as I shifted in my armchair seeking a more comfortable position I could not fully repress a moan as my sore body and aching chest protested the movements.

Holmes's white face turned again in my direction, and it was gaunt and haggard as was to be expected...but there was something else in my friend's face…

Something…that I had never seen before.

"Holmes?" I asked softly.

His eyes fixed on me, and I was alarmed...because there for one of the few times in our long acquaintanceship, I saw - uncertainty.

"You are worn out, old fellow," My friend said, pushing his emotions aside and moving towards my bag which lay on the sideboard. "You should sleep. I'm going to give you a sedative."

There was something more here…something that Holmes's quick mind had deduced, leaving me in the dust. And the fact that my friend was trying to avoid it altogether frightened me.

"Holmes," I caught hold of his wrist as he brought the needle near to my elbow.

He stopped and I saw him swallow…he did not meet my gaze.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, "What have you realized? You might as well tell me because sedative or no I cannot rest when _the great Sherlock Holmes _is frightened."

I said this half in jest, though I did not feel like joking. I felt weak and sick…even the effort of breathing cost me. And I was dreadfully embarrassed at my invalidity and the inconvenience I was causing Holmes.

At long last the detective raised his head and took a shaky breath. He took one look at my face and flinched as if from a physical blow. Then he backed away slowly to the sofa and let his head fall into his hands as he sat.

"Oh, Watson…isn't it obvious?" his voice shook, no doubt with exhaustion as with anything else.

"What is, Holmes? It is clear to me that something has shaken you…It's not that pathetic threat is it?"

"Pathetic, Watson!?" he snapped, glaring at me. "Good heavens, man - when will you get it into your head that you could have easily been killed?!"

He struck the arm of the sofa in his anger and got to his feet again.

"Holmes," I said, "You're exhausted. I will not have you collapsing on my account! I am fine…"

Holmes leaned against the mantle and looked at me.

"No, Watson." he smiled slightly. "You are far wearier than I. And yet here you are trying to care for me as usual. Very well, Doctor…I shall sit."

He did so, crossing the room and resuming his seat on the sofa…and it was this compliance that frightened me the most.

"Holmes." I said. "What has shaken you so badly? Was it the note?"

Holmes laughed without humor. "Yes Watson…yes it was the note."

"Well, what of it?"

"It was your brother, Watson."

I blinked in surprise…_that_ was not what I had been expecting.

"I beg your pardon?"

My friend fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together…like a lad brought up before the headmaster. He fixed me with a stern gaze.

"Read the note in your hand, Watson," he said.

"I am not in the mood for one of your deducing games, Holmes, just _tell_ me." I said in agitation and ended up coughing again, flinching as it jarred my ribs.

Holmes made to rise, his eyes concerned, but I waved him back. He settled, waited for me to finish and then downcast his eyes again.

Adopting one of his professional manners he spoke clearly and as unemotionally as he did when stating the uninteresting facts of a case.

"Your brother did not die of drink, Watson. At least not directly as you originally believed."

I frowned. " Mycroft-"

"Yes I know…but Mycroft had not seen the note. He could not come to the same conclusion as I now have."

Holmes rubbed his newly-shaven face wearily and pressed on, as though now that he had started he could not possibly stop.

"You brother was killed."

For some moments the words hung in the air between us. Then I spoke.

"Killed…what do you mean, killed?"

Holmes took a shaky breath, and he could no longer keep the emotion out of his voice as he spoke.

"I mean he was murdered, Watson."

Murder.

The word…that word was like a jolt to the heart, and at once I felt the full horror of the thing Holmes was telling me.

"Murdered."

"By the same group who hurt you." This he said in a low voiced growl of anger and he got to his feet for the second time, standing before the fire.

"It is obvious from your brother's watch that he was a drinker, Mycroft agrees with me on that point, and it is an easy weakness to take advantage of."

He folded his hands behind his back, gazing into the flames, his face reflecting weirdly in the light.

"All sources indicate that your brother took a fall…he could just as easily have been pushed."

I was only half-listening to his words now. And the sharp physical pain that had been bothering me faded…to be replaced by another pain entirely.

Andrew…

Images that I had thought long dead, laid to rest at his death, rose unbidden to my mind. Memories of he and I and my father, of the tenacious student he had been, of the protective position he had taken all through our childhood, fighting my own battles for me as often as I fought his.

Of lazy summer afternoons, a small river we had swum in, of the books he had read to me...first from the classics he had so loved, and then the stories of his own invention, instilling in me his own love of words.

But that was gone…he had become arrogant and unfeeling in his last days of university. Had taken his inheritance and left, keeping little contact with me or Father. Like the proverbial prodigal son he had vanished…only Andrew had not come back.

He had fallen into evil companions and drink, and now – had been murdered.

Where in heaven's name had I been through all of this? Where had I been when he had needed me the most?

I had not even questioned the circumstances of his death.

I thought that I had mourned my brother a year past, but now I realized I was had only denied it until now.

I lowered my head into my hands. The aches and pains were returning, strengthened by the black dread that had clawed its way into my soul. Andrew was dead…he had been murdered. And now they were after me.

"Dear God," I whispered, more as a helpless prayer for myself than anything else.

My hands were shaking…and a detached, almost humorous part of my mind realized that I was afraid.

These men had killed my brother, the man who had been my idol as we grew. A man who had always been older and stronger and more protective, he was dead, because I had not been there for him.

And now I was alone.

It was as though a great bottomless chasm had opened before me, yawning at my feet ready to swallow me.

I jerked my head up as a hand came to rest quite suddenly on my shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes stood beside my chair and was gripping my shoulder. His face was steady and calm, and his eyes warm with sympathy.

He did not offer any words, I doubted whether he knew what he should say, he had never been given to displays of emotion…especially ones of affection. But he was there, reminding me that I was _not_ alone, that he understood.

And coming from Sherlock Holmes….that meant quite a lot.

I breathed out shakily, and held my ribs as they panged again.

"Watson." Holmes said softly, gently taking hold of my good arm and easing me up from my seat. "You should rest now."

"I cannot rest." I rasped dully as he led me to the sofa and pushed me down onto it.

"Yes, you can."

Holmes took the abandoned needle from the mantle and injected the sedative into my arm. Then he lifted my legs onto the sofa and pushed me back into the cushions. Retrieving a blanket from his bedroom he spread it over me.

When he turned away I was terrified that he might leave, and indeed I knew he needed to get some rest - but I did not want to be alone with the terrible blackness…not the blackness that was gathering outside in a late afternoon storm, but the dread that had settled inside me.

He did not leave. Sherlock Holmes bent and took his well-loved violin from his case. He positioned it beneath his chin, smiled at me, and began to play, clearly indicating that he would wait there until I had fallen asleep, and I thanked heaven for the powers of his intuition that made him realize that I needed him there.

Relieved, I let my battered, weary form sink into sofa. I relaxed and let go of the control that had been keeping me upright for the last hour.

Still I could not sleep…I was all too aware of my exhaustion and the crippling pain that ran through my body, that and the fear. These tormenting sensations could not remain inside of me, not while I so desperately needed to rest.

So my body reverted to one of the simplest and most mysterious of remedies. Completely overwhelmed, I buried my face in the familiar leather of the couch and gave in and wept, as I had not done since the horrific battle of Maiwand, when a similar darkness had plagued me.

Uncaring of whether or not Holmes was watching, grateful for the release, I let my emotions drain away and tried to concentrate on the basic, but passionate symphony that Holmes was composing, trying to lose myself in its powerful prose…until at last the arms of Morpheus claimed me and I was on once again surrounded by darkness.

TBC…


	9. None Goes His way Alone

_There is a destiny that makes us brothers;  
None goes his way alone:  
All that we send into the lives of others  
Comes back into our own._

_-Edwin Markham_

Chapter 9: "None Goes His Way Alone"

_**Holmes:**_

I had no mean trouble trying to concentrate on the air I was performing on that instrument, for every time the melody quieted slightly was another instance when I was acutely aware of Watson's suffering, emotional as well as physical. Each soft sob I heard drove a dagger into my own heart, and it was difficult to carry on with that song.

How I wished I had not been the one to tell him of the dreadful news! I, of all people! I have absolutely no idea of how to deal with emotional people – I am impatient with mere clients, and I certainly had no idea what to do for my poor Watson.

The death of my parents when I was younger was the only emotional event I could even remotely associate with a pain such as the one I had seen reflected in my friend's eyes. I had bottled up those dark days and weeks following the funeral and stored them away in my formidable mind so deeply that I knew I should never find them again.

Even though now I wished I could, so that I could do something, anything, to help Watson – but I was helpless. The only thing I could do for him was to quiet his mind so that he might escape for a few hours the terrible pain he was in.

After about ten minutes of playing that melody, I saw his troubled, ragged breathing start to even out, and after a few more minutes, I knew he had at last fallen into a troubled sleep. I prayed the sedative would be strong enough to prevent the nightmares that were likely to occur.

And then I set the violin down in its case, my mind deeply troubled by what had just taken place.

My disturbed gaze fell upon my dear friend, now asleep at last, and the sight of the tear-stains on his features was enough to send an almost physical pain through my already heightened senses.

I was not accustomed to being emotionally caught up in any such case up to that point – and the constantly changing sensations were completely throwing my nerves into a shattered wreck.

For Watson's sake, I had to pull my emotions under a tight, controlled rein – no more such demonstrations as of earlier, when I threw that messenger down the stairs.

I leaned over and picked up the thistle that had fallen to the floor during our discussion and studied it.

I knew that Tartan plaid varied from clan to clan, and that it must have some great significance in the case – but more than that I could not know. But Mycroft might have the time after he was through at Whitehall to help me – he had told me to come to him with any fresh news.

I would do so. He would be finished in a little over two hours. Until then, I could –

My thoughts were interrupted by a pounding of feet on the stairs.

I sprinted to the door in time to intercept Wiggins before he woke up Watson, closing the door softly behind me and facing the boy in the hall.

"Wiggins! You'll wake up the Doctor – what are you doing?" I hissed at the boy.

His honest face suddenly assumed a look or deep regret.

"Sorry, Mr. 'Olmes," he whispered, "oi forgot – was just so excited ta tell you!"

"Tell me what, Wiggins?"

"Bert an' me found a lad wot saw the fight 'appen last night, Mr. 'Olmes! 'E's been 'elpin' out at the pawn shop close ta th' Oxford Street crossin', see, an' 'e was closin' up fer Mr. Beckham – 'e's th' owner, Mr. 'Olmes –"

"Yes, yes, Wiggins! Where is this boy?" I asked impatiently, realizing he was a vital witness if the fight he had seen was indeed Watson versus his attackers.

"'E's in the 'all downstairs, sir," the lad replied, pointing behind him.

I took the steps at a rapid pace, my excitement showing in my features and mirrored in Wiggins's small face. At the bottom, I beheld a small boy, about Wiggins's age, but dressed a little better than my lieutenant – he obviously was not a street urchin.

"Hallo, lad. I am Sherlock Holmes," I said, sitting on the steps so he would not have to look up at me, "and what might your name be?"

"Ed – Edwin Peters, Mr. Holmes," the boy said, looking slightly ill at ease at my serious tone of voice – I was impatient, and I realized I had to slow down.

"Yew can tell this gentl'm'n ev'rythin' yew saw last night, Ed," Wiggins said in a low confidential tone to the lad, "the bloke what got it last night is 'is best friend – 'e wants ta find the blighters wot did it."

At the reassurance of his little friend, Edwin Peters began to unfold his tale to me, and I listened with strict attention.

"Well, sir, Mr. Beckham 'ad gone to bed, sir, - we were doin' some reorganizin' of the shelves an' he hurt his back – and so I was left to lock up the shop, you see."

"Go on, lad. What happened then?"

"Well, sir," the boy fidgeted nervously with the buttons on his jacket, "as I was pulling the shades down on th' windows, the down the street and across from the shop I saw – I saw these two fellows come up behind another man. He was carryin' a doctor's bag – and then –"

The lad stopped, swallowing hard, obviously not enjoying the remembrance.

"Go on, Ed – Mr. 'Olmes wants ta find the two blokes," Wiggins nudged the boy.

"Well, sir, the doctor put up one bloomin' good fight, sir," Edwin told me, his eyes shining with admiration, and I allowed myself a fond smile.

"He had busted the one bloke's nose right badly, sir, and I thought he was goin' to make short work of the other, but the one chap had a club –" the lad stopped, biting his lip in worry.

My own face darkened with that anger that still was roiling under my calm exterior, like a pot over a fire when the lid is on too tightly.

"All right, lad, I know what happened from there," I said, forcing my voice to be gentle, knowing I had to remain collected and calm. "Tell me what you noticed about the two men who attacked the doctor."

"Well, sir," the boy scratched around his ear nervously, chewing on his lip. "Umm, they were both tall – it was hard to see clearly, Mr. Holmes, what with the rain comin' down the window and all."

"Try ta remember, Ed," Wiggins interjected before I could, "anythin' 'll help us find the chaps."

I had to smile at the usage of the word _us_, but my grin seemed to encourage the boy to deeper thought, wrinkling his small forehead with concentration.

"The one the doctor broke his nose, he was like two, three inches shorter than the other chap," Edwin said.

"How tall compared to the doctor, Edwin?" I asked.

"'Bout the same, Mr. Holmes," the boy said, "and the other bloke, the one with the club, was about two inches taller than the doctor."

"How were they dressed?"

"Long dark coats, I think black," the boy said, trying to remember, "one of 'em – the one with the broken nose now – he had a striped muffler."

"Could yew see their faces, chum?" Wiggins asked.

"Not very well," the boy replied, "it was nearly dark and rainin'."

"C'mon, Ed, think!" Wiggins cried before I could remonstrate with the boy.

"Umm, the one chap, the tall one, had a black derby hat on, an' his hair was dark, too," Edwin said, wrinkling his forehead in concentration, "and, and – yes, the other bloke, the one that got his nose broke, his hat fell off and he had blond hair, I'm sure of it!"

"Well done, lad. Can you remember anything else about them?"

"I – I don't think so, sir. It was so dark, and they were across the street – and – " the lad stopped.

"Go on," I encouraged.

"And I was awful scared, sir," the boy finished, his little face flushing with embarrassment.

"That ain't nothin' ta be 'shamed of, Ed," Wiggins admonished wisely, "ev'rybody's 'fraid o' somethin'."

"Wiggins is right, lad. You did very well, and thank you for coming to tell me about this," I said, holding out my hand to the boy.

He shook it a little timidly, and I stood, putting on my coat.

"Wiggins?"

"Right, sir?"

"I want you to take Edwin back home, and then I need you to run to Pall Mall."

"Pall Mall? Blimey!"

"Yes. Find the address on this envelope and give it to the gentleman you were so intent on protecting Watson from this morning," I said, grinning at the remembrance and handing the envelope over to the little ragamuffin, "and tell him to meet me at Baker Street as soon as he has information."

"Right, sir. Come 'long, Ed."

"And Edwin, thank you very much," I said, looking at the boy, "Scotland Yard will be very pleased to have your descriptions of those men."

The lad's small face flushed with pride, and he followed Wiggins out the door.

After instructing Mrs. Hudson to let no one into the house other than Mycroft while I was away and peeping in to see that poor Watson was still dead to the world, I hailed a cab and made my way to Scotland Yard.

Upon my arrival, I was told that Inspector Lestrade was not in his office but was expected to return from the morgue momentarily, and the sergeant allowed me to wait in the small office for the official.

This was not a task I was at all looking forward to performing – I despised admitting that I was wrong on the few past occasions the fact had been true, and this was no exception. I was also not the most handsome apologizer in the world, and it showed in my curt manner usually.

I was spared having to torture myself in rehearsing what to say when a moment later the door opened and the ferret-faced detective barreled into the room, flinging his hat down to his desk in irritation. Then, seeing me, his annoyed look grew even darker.

Forestalling any comment from the man, I rose, and uncertainly held out my hand.

"Inspector, I – I have come here to apologize to you for my – atrocious behavior the other evening," I said, hoping my tone was as sincere as I felt.

It must have been, for the little man's eyebrows went to the ceiling, and he stared at me for a moment before accepting my hand.

"I – I suppose I caught you at a bad time, Mr. Holmes?" the man asked timidly, seating himself and looking at me expectantly.

_You have no idea how bad_, I wanted to say, but I told the man what had happened just before his arrival at the flat, and the poor fellow's face suffused with sympathy.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I had no idea – I'm dreadfully sorry to hear that. How is the Doctor now?" he asked, obviously my rudeness being forgiven and forgotten, a fact for which I was very grateful.

"He is still in a good deal of pain, but he refuses to stay in bed where he belongs," I said in annoyance, and the Yarder grinned at my irritated expression.

"Do you know who the men were that did that to him?"

"I have only vague descriptions from Watson and from a lad who witnessed the attack from down the street," I said, scribbling the scanty information down on a piece of paper I appropriated from Lestrade's desk.

I handed the sheet to the man and he looked over it.

"That's not much to go on," he said ruefully.

"I know it," I replied, my forehead creasing with worry, "just keep watch for the men, would you, Lestrade?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. Do you want me to post a guard on the house?"

"No, that won't be necessary," I said, "if they were going to try another direct attack, then they would have done so before now."

"Very good, sir. You said that the tall one had a Scotch accent?"

"Correct, Inspector. There's an underlying Scottish thread that is woven throughout this whole affair."

"Well, if you end up needing help from Edinburgh, we'd be more than happy to ensure that you get it," Lestrade told me earnestly.

I was slightly amazed at the man's readiness to forget my disgraceful behavior of the last evening, but I merely thanked the man for his graciousness and turned to leave.

"Give my regards to the Doctor, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade called after me, "and I'll let you know if we find out anything."

"Thank you again, Inspector. Good evening."

I stalked out of the Yard's headquarters, my head bowed, deep in thought, trying to reason out what connection that Scottish theme was with the whole business.

My thoughts turned back to my dear friend, whom I hoped was still mercifully unconscious, free for a while from the awful grief that had been evidenced on his face when I had finally managed to get him to sleep, and I vowed anew to find the men responsible for this atrocity.

Watson's family was Scottish by descent – that much I knew. Andrew had been in Scotland when he was murdered. But why? And by whom? What was the significance of the thistle and that blue-and-green plaid ribbon?

More importantly, what was it that those two men – and heaven only knew how many more – wanted from Watson? Something they thought he would be carrying at the time, for they tried to get into his medical case to find it.

Perhaps one of Andrew's journals? Some incriminating information?

Or was it just a valuable possession that Watson had no idea the value of?

Or was it something else, something that I had not been able to cogitate yet?

I fervently hoped as I walked along, turning my collar up against the chilling air, that my brother would be able to use his influence and superior powers to accomplish some progress, for I was too distracted and too worried to be able to think with any kind of clarity.

And I had a distinctly uneasy feeling, gnawing like a wild animal at the back of my mind, that we were rapidly running out of time.

TBC…


	10. Courage Brother

Courage, brother! do not stumble,  
Though thy path be dark as night;  
There's a star to guide the humble,  
Trust in God and do the Right.

-Unknown

Chapter 10: "Courage Brother"

**_Watson:_**

_Green fields, dusted with a sprinkling of yellow flowers. Here and there the odd butterfly flitted from blossom to blossom, and the rhythmic humming of grasshoppers gave evidence of the little creatures hiding in the long grasses._

_"Come now, John, I know you can run faster than that!" The fifteen-year-old laughed, his sandy hair blowing in the summer wind as he shot a teasing challenge at the ten-year-old boy chasing him._

_The little boy scowled and put on a burst of speed, not knowing that the teenager was slowing purposely to allow him to catch up and then to pass the older youngster. But the elation on the little one's face was ample compensation for intentionally losing the race._

_"Ha! You're getting slow in your old age, Andrew!" the boy gasped, out of breath with his exertions as they both flopped down upon the grass under a spreading oak tree._

_"Hmf," the other replied, reaching over and ruffling the younger boy's hair. The boy swatted his hand away playfully, and a mock fight ensued._

_Ten minutes later, both lads were sitting comfortably under the tree, tired but happy with their efforts._

_"Tell me a story, Andrew!" the little one pleaded._

_"A story? What about?"_

_"Pirates or something," the lad said, his eyes shining with anticipation._

_So the older lad leaned back against the tree trunk and began to weave a tale of treachery and love, good and evil, greed and heroism, casting the spell of truly great storytelling over the two boys until John could actually hear the thunder booming through the darkness of the roiling high seas and could see the lightning flash and the rain splashing over the decks of full-rigged Spanish galleons._

_At a particularly loud, crashing peal of thunder that rocked the entire ship –_

I sat up abruptly, breathing heavily and staring about me in confusion. Then the sharp pain shooting through my body and the sight of the tangled blankets around my legs slammed me with force back to reality, and I realized that I was in the sitting room at Baker Street.

The thunder I had heard was taking place outside the flat, as well as the lightning and pouring rain – a late afternoon thunderstorm.

It had all been a dream.

A heartless, pointless, drug-induced dream.

Andrew had been dead for nearly a year now, and he was not coming back.

Ever.

I sat for a moment, trying to slow my rapid breathing, and looked about. Sherlock Holmes was gone, along with his ulster and hat from the rack in the hall – he had left the door open.

I was alone.

The fact that my friend was probably out trying to help me in tracking down clues did nothing to banish the intense loneliness that overwhelmed me, and I sank back into the cushions of the couch, fighting back tears for the second time that day.

But I shook myself sternly a moment later, willing my senses to regain some semblance of composure – Holmes would need me to be in control when he returned. I had been out for – let me see – three hours; he must surely be on his way back by now.

The poor chap had been clueless, I knew, as to how to help me, and I had no wish to cause him further discomfort. I needed an outlet to release some of those emotions prior to his return.

My troubled gaze fell upon my writing desk. Of course. I warily got to my feet, realizing I was still quite shaky, and carefully made my way over to it, grasping along the mantle for support as my aching ribs protested the exercise.

Once seated, I got out my pen and a blank journal and prepared to write – then realized my right wrist was held in that confounded sling.

I attempted in great frustration to use my left hand for the same purpose, but I finally slammed the pen down to the desk in absolute embarrassment at my own helplessness, the tears stinging at the back of my eyes once more at my complete frustration. I slumped down in the chair and put my forehead down on my arm, trying to get a grip on myself.

Then I heard a rather timid knock on the open hall door.

I turned, blinking rapidly to clear my vision, to see the figure of Mycroft Holmes filling up the entire doorframe.

"No, no, no, Doctor – please do not try to get up," he said as I made to rise, "may I?"

"Yes, of course, Mycroft," I replied, thoroughly ashamed of the way my voice was shaking.

And of course, the fact was not lost on the keen observer. He entered the room after tossing his hat upon the rack outside and hanging his dripping coat as well, and walked over to the desk where I sat.

He said nothing, but just observed me from those disconcertingly keen grey eyes before taking a seat in Holmes's armchair beside me. Had he seen my childish demonstration of a few moment's previously?

"So, Doctor, my brother told you of his conclusions, did he?" Mycroft asked at last, his voice gentle.

"Yes," I responded, "Before he left here a few hours ago."

"He left you alone?" Mycroft's eyes flashed with a brotherly indignation that sent a tendril of warmth to my chilled heart.

"No, no, Mycroft. He gave me a sedative and stayed until I was asleep," I hastened to explain, a small smile turning the corners of my mouth at the man's reaction.

"Good – Sherlock can be most annoyingly obtuse when it come to emotional matters," the man muttered, sitting back in his chair and looking at me.

"You are frustrated because you are unable to write in your condition, Doctor?" he said, his eyes flitting to the ink-splattered paper and then my sling.

I sighed – one could not hide anything from either of the brothers, and the fact grew monotonous at times.

"I am _extremely_ frustrated, Mycroft," I said softly, staring moodily at the open journal.

"Hmmm."

I turned a quizzical glance at the man sitting facing me. His ample brow was furrowed, and then he looked back at me.

"Well, Doctor, since you are unable to write about your memories, would you perhaps be interested in discussing them with a sympathetic ear instead?"

I stared at the man – Mycroft Holmes had no taste for pointless conversation; he was even more impatient than Holmes was by nature. And here he was, offering to be a listener for a distraught, grieving man?

He must have read my thoughts, for he went on.

"Doctor, it is simply not healthy for you to have all this caught up inside you. I do not want you to – to turn into the man my brother did after our parents died," his voice had dropped to an almost whisper as he finished the statement, and I was shocked.

Before I could question the man, he hastened on, as if ashamed of telling me what he had.

"I am willing to listen, Doctor, if you merely want to ramble about anything. Perhaps, while we talk, we might fashion a more loose sling for that arm, so that you might have a little mobility at least, eh?"

I let out my breath with a sigh – I knew better than to question one of the Holmeses. That one sentence was the only explanation I was ever likely to get regarding my dearest friend's reticence.

Mycroft's kind offer amazed me to no end, and I believed he really meant what he said.

"I should be eternally grateful, for both offers," I said at last, a smile breaking over my face.

At the sight of it, the portly man's own features relaxed, and he hastened to fetch my bag from the sideboard and then helped me over to the couch.

While he aided me in fashioning a looser sling for that confounded sprained wrist, he began to gently prod me to release some of the memories that were spinning around in my troubled consciousness.

Slowly at first, and then more rapidly as my discomfort at baring my soul to anyone but Holmes faded, I told Mycroft of many things we had done as children while on family vacations in Scotland and events that had happened while at home in the North.

I told him of my mother's death when I was a very little boy, and of my brother's and my subsequent closeness with Father; of Father's death while I was in medical school, and of Andrew's becoming more and more distant at the University he had attended.

"Now, Doctor," the elder Holmes said as he gently placed my bandaged wrist in the new sling and tied it over my shoulder, "do you feel up to telling me more about your brother – details that might aid us in discovering who killed him?"

Mycroft gently pushed me back to recline on the couch and then pulled a chair up beside me. I closed my eyes for a moment, realizing that I no longer felt as if my emotions were out of control – actually, I felt an odd kind of peace.

Letting my breath out, I opened my eyes and looked at Mycroft Holmes, who was waiting quite unusually patiently for my answer.

"Thank you, Mycroft," I said softly, and very sincerely.

"You are more than welcome, Doctor. Now." He looked at me expectantly.

"Andrew dropped out of the University, Mycroft, when he became involved with bad friends and took to drinking and gambling on a regular basis. Father refused to front his bills, and so he was forced to leave the school."

"What did he do then, Doctor? And how old were you at the time?"

"I had just enrolled in the University of London," I responded, "when I heard that he had taken what little money my father was willing to give him and left the country with a few friends to make his way in Scotland."

"Your family has Scottish heritage, I believe."

"Yes, it does. I really never researched what, though."

"I have, Doctor. When Sherlock gets back, I shall tell you what I have discovered. But please, do go on. After your brother left the country, did you hear from him at all?"

I frowned, guilt again plaguing me.

"No," I whispered, "Father died not long after that and I saw him at the funeral – he received the bulk of the estate, but he heartlessly sold it not long after to pay his creditors."

Mycroft's face darkened in sympathy.

"And the little I got from the inheritance was just enough to pay my way through medical school – not enough to set me up in general practice. Hence the army career," I told the man, a little ruefully, indicating my bad shoulder.

"Then you heard nothing more from Andrew after the funeral?"

"I wrote him once or twice, but the letters came back unopened – he changed addresses regularly, evidently, and no one seemed to know where he was. In the army, I had several other matters to occupy my attention, and my brother was sent to the back of my mind, I am afraid," I said, ashamed of my own insensitivity.

"And upon your return to London? You were still quite ill – I am sure your brother's whereabouts were the last things on your mind," Mycroft said understandingly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to words. I swallowed hard, and went on.

"Then not long after, I met your brother. And the new life I began to lead –" I stopped, biting my lip.

"Sherlock took your brother's place in your life, and you thought there would be plenty of time to locate Andrew someday," Mycroft supplied softly.

I nodded again, mutely, as I realized the man's deductions were entirely correct. In these seven years, Holmes had become the closest person in the world to me, not my unhappy brother as it had been when we were younger. Was that wrong?

"No, Doctor, it is perfectly natural," Mycroft said, leaning forward to put a large hand on my arm – he had once again perceived what I was thinking.

I looked at the man, my face troubled.

"Doctor, I want to tell you something," Mycroft went on, fidgeting nervously with his enormous pocket-handkerchief.

I waited for him to go on.

"My brother, Doctor, became a very cynical, very morose young man after the deaths of our parents in a boating accident back in 1878. I became very worried about Sherlock, but I too had a new life, in the government business, and Sherlock neither wanted my help nor asked for it. Eventually, his whereabouts and what he was doing with himself gradually eased their way out of my mind – I had important business to deal with on a daily basis."

I stared at the man – was he telling me that his own thoughts had been similar to mine?

"And," he went on, a look of regret crossing his face, "and I was heartily glad to see that he had at last in 1881 found a man whom he might trust enough to break down those barriers he had built round himself. You, Doctor, have changed my brother. He is not the man he was before you met."

I was stunned at the news, and the feelings of grief and despair I had been so consumed with slowly dissipated under the elder Holmes's words.

"You, and you alone, Doctor, have changed Sherlock from that frighteningly morbid creature he was ten years ago," Mycroft said, again fidgeting with that ponderous handkerchief, "and for that, I shall forever be in your debt."

"Thank you," I whispered.

"And, Doctor, please cease to berate yourself for the guilt you are feeling about your brother's death," the man went on, somewhat relieved now that the personal business had been discussed, "for I had the same feelings about Sherlock when I grew so consumed with my government affairs I ceased to keep track of him. That is a normal part of coming of age and finding one's way in the world."

I sighed, the man's wise words washing over me like a flood of pure relief – then I was not so much to blame for the absence of facts concerning Andrew's death.

"Mycroft," I began, suddenly timid in this man's presence who had done so much to help me, "I – well, thank you very much."

The man's large face creased in a smile.

"How are you feeling now, Doctor?"

"Much better, thank you," I said, "I really –"

My words were interrupted by the whirlwind arrival of the younger Holmes – he had burst into the room, flinging off a dripping ulster and dropping it carelessly on the floor.

But it was not that fact that so shocked his brother and I – it was the fact that in his hand he held the remains of a walking-stick, broken in half, and that he was sporting a bruised, bleeding right hand and an angry red welt on the side of his face.

He had been engaged in some manner of violent fight.

Or he was the victim of a murderous attack – one or the other.

TBC…


	11. A Great Vengeance

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers." - Quentin Tarantino

Chapter 11: "Great Vengance"

_**Holmes:**_

There are very few parts of London with which I am not familiar, and I have never had a fear of making my way down even the least inviting of them. With the onset of the unexpected thunderstorm the cabs picked up their fares and vanished. And I was left to make my way back to Baker Street on foot.

Not that I much minded; the rain bothered me very little and I was in a black mood of contemplation and so welcomed the chance for a solitary walk to relieve the stress of my mind.

It is perhaps not a coincidence that both Watson and I were attacked during dark, stormy hours…and I should have realized from the beginning that I was being followed.

For I had walked alone in the rain for no more than twenty minutes or so before I heard the footsteps behind me.

The fool should have read some of Watson's stories in the _Strand_. If he had, he would have realized that I have exceptional hearing.

Despite thunderstorms.

No doubt he was one of Watson's original attackers. Seeing me suddenly alerted to his presence, the man rushed me in a very unprofessional frontal attack.

I dodged it a little too late…he was faster than I had supposed, and the blow landed on my left cheekbone.

He pulled back to strike again, a terrible leer of triumph on his face.

The expression dropped when I brought my stick up into his stomach.

The anger that had been building in me was funneled all at once into a cold and calculating fury. Adrenaline flooded my veins and I felt my lips curl back over my teeth in an animalistic snarl.

This was one of the men who had harmed Watson, standing solid and tangible before me, something I could get my hands on.

And all at once…I was no longer the victim in that deserted street…he was. And I was very much the hunter.

His terrified face at my inhuman look testified to that fact, and had I not advanced I believe he would have run.

He shook off my blow and charged again, knocking me back against the wall of the nearest building with considerable force. I felt my hand graze the stone and I cried out, ducking as he aimed a right hook at my face.

Instead his blow landed against the building and he swore, staggering back. I began to straighten, only to meet his fist as it hit the same spot on my face.

All the rules of fair-play, of which my nation claims to be so fond, left my mind and I cracked my stick over his head while using a long leg to knock his feet out from under him.

He hit the pavement hard…the breath fleeing from his lungs. I seized hold of the villain and held him up against an iron railing that extended from one of the buildings. I pressed my now damaged stick against his throat and he gripped it, eyes wide and terrified.

I glared at him for a few moments while I regained my breath…than said icily. "It is common courtesy to introduce yourself before beginning a conversation."

The man swallowed, or attempted to.

"Who are you?"

"M-m…"

I pressed my stick into his throat, he choked.

"Mcallistair! M-mcallistair…don'…please…"

"Whyever not?" I seethed. "Given your activities of last night, I would assume you enjoy roughhousing."

"I didn' do nothin'."

I pressed him harder into the railing so that he was leaning over the dangerously low staircase beneath it.

"You beat a man on Oxford Street last night, did you not!?"

He stuttered, glancing between my face and the drop behind him.

"DID YOU NOT?!" I snarled, completely losing my temper.

"Yes! Yes! But we didn' kill im!"

"Thank heaven that you did not….for if you had you would have been dead quite a while ago." I hissed with such menace it startled even me.

He strained feebly against my stick. "Are you goin' to kill me?"

"I should." I said glaring into his pale face, "You haven't the least idea how strongly I am tempted."

Mcallister whimpered, but far from engaging my sympathy the sound reminded me of how he must have ignored the very same sounds as he beat Watson. Just an inch and the hard wood could close off his windpipe…such was not beyond me at the moment.

"If you answer my questions I may retain enough of my patience to take you to Scotland Yard in one piece." I hissed, "What is it you are trying to get from Watson and why?"

"I..I..I don' know…that was his, job not mine…I wasn't s'pposed t' know!"

"That is not what I want to hear!" I snarled again, pushing him farther.

He whimpered, struggled and gasped past the stick. "A watch!...it was a watch!"

I frowned, thinking. "His brother's watch?"

Mcallister nodded fervently, still struggling.

"Is that why they killed Andrew Watson? Because he had the watch?"

"Y-yes…he ducked out…didn' want part anymore…but the watch was important…he took it with im."

"He sent it to his brother to keep it out of your hands."

Another nod.

I leaned further in, "What was it he did not want part of? What were you planning?"

"I don' know…I was only to help get the watch."

"Where is your friend?"

"He…he's goin' back…he's gone."

"Going back? Back where?"

Mcallister choked with his efforts. "Rathclythe."

"Of course…to Scotland. To meet the others."

At my words his eyes widened and he ceased his struggles.

"You're part of a group. There are more of you…"

He glanced at me, fixed, like a man before the muzzle of a loaded gun.

"Who are they?"

He shook his head again, and an even deeper fear settled in his eyes.

"Who are they?!" I growled

"I can' tell you!"

I pressed harder against the stick and he gagged and struggled, managing to land a blow on my knee.

It hurt but the sound that escaped my lips was more of a growl than anything else. I released the chokehold and pulled him back up only to send my fist into his face, crushing an already broken nose, and blackening his eye in the process.

He gasped and fell against the brick of the next building, clutching his broken face. But his eyes never left me…and I knew that his fear was genuine.

He could not tell me…not without instilling the wrath of this organization…he could be killed and all of his information would be lost with him.

He had to be kept somewhere safe while he was questioned…and I only knew of one place at the moment.

I caught hold of his collar, barely restraining myself from doing him in then and there, and hauled him roughly back the way I had come.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade leapt to his feet as I barged without ceremony into his office, pulling Mcallister behind me.

"A present for you Lestrade." I said with a grin that made my prisoner shudder. "This is one of the chaps who decided to pay Doctor Watson a visit last night! I'm sure you have efficient methods to interrogate him."

The Inspector's beady gaze traveled over Mcallister's bleeding, bruised face and the shallow graze on his head that my stick had caused. The stick itself was still clutched in my right hand, very obviously broken.

"Erm, it would seem, Mr. Holmes, that you have done a little interrogating on your own."

"Oh yes, we had a pleasant chat."

Lestrade smiled slightly and sat again at his desk, shuffling his papers. "How nice. Very well Mr. Holmes…we'll take it from here."

One of the officers on duty came to relieve me of my burden and escorted Mcallister from the room. I turned to leave but was stopped by Lestrade's voice.

"You look a little off yourself, Mr. Holmes…would you like to rest? I could send for tea…and perhaps a medic."

I turned to face him, rather surprised. "No, thank you Lestrade…very kind of you but he has given me a lead."

The Inspector smiled and nodded. "I understand, Mr. Holmes….good luck. And be careful…we've gotten used to seein' you around here."

I thanked him again and left his office. I once told Watson that I would never get his limits…perhaps the same was true of a certain Scotland Yard Inspector.

* * *

I stormed up the seventeen steps of 221b Baker Street, still filled with the energy and exhilaration of the tussle I had engaged in.

Thus I did not deduce the presence of my brother until I had burst into the room and shed my coat.

Mycroft and Watson were seated before the fire, and both turned towards me as I entered.

Watson's already pale face blanched…and Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock!"

"Holmes!"

"What is it?" I asked as I took in my friend's stricken face. "Has something happened?"

"I think you had better tell us, Sherlock." My brother said.

Only then did I realize that my right hand was bleeding, and I still held the broken walking stick. Considering the blow I had received my face was probably bruised as well.

"Ah…well…"

"You're hurt." Watson said, beginning to rise from his seat.

I saw him wince at the movement, but he managed to rise and went to his bag.

I was rather pleased that his latest rest had given him energy enough to accomplish this feat…but his injuries still haunted me.

"Not badly, Watson. To quote our colonial cousins, you should see the other fellow."

"You found him?" Mycroft said, as quick as ever. He settled back in his chair with a sigh…as though I were a child and he an experienced and weary parent.

"No…he found me…the sod attempted to pull the same trick on me as he did you Watson."

My friend looked at me sharply, his hazel eyes dark with concern. "Sit down, Holmes."

I smiled as he approached with the bag in hand, his arm in a far looser sling than it had been secured in before. "Ever the Doctor, Watson."

Watson snorted. "Sit down, Holmes before you get blood on Mrs. Hudson's carpet."

But I was too eager to sit still to be treated. I turned to Mycroft.

"I gleaned some information from him before I turned him over to Scotland Yard. He and the other man who attacked Watson were assigned to get his brother's watch."

Watson scoffed softly behind me. "Why in heavens name…."

I held up a hand to quiet him and continued.

"There are more of them Mycroft, the attacker at large is on his way to a rendezvous in Rythclythe Scotland…they are a group."

Mycroft smiled without mirth. "They are more than that, Sherlock…that is what I came over to tell you. I have traced the Tartan – and found something very sinister. And very deadly."

TBC…


	12. Always Be a Brother

"A brother may not be a friend, but a friend will always be a brother." - Samuel Richardson

Chapter 12: "Always Be a Brother"

_**Watson:**_

I stopped, bandages in my hands, and stared at Mycroft Holmes in surprise.

Holmes stiffened beside me, and impatiently began firing rapid questions at his older brother. Mycroft was not amused at his belligerent attitude and sternly reprimanded him for it, much to my amusement.

"Sherlock, I am not telling you anything until you cease with that verbal bombardment! And not until you HOLD STILL, Sherlock, so that the Doctor does not have to injure himself in order to patch you up!"

Under the stern elder brother's gaze, I saw Sherlock flush uncomfortably, and he did sit still, allowing me to clean and bandage his bleeding knuckles – it was rather a hard task to do with only one good arm and the other only partially mobile in a sling; but I vowed to manage it somehow and I did.

Proud of myself for actually accomplishing something without help, I then moved onto the angry welt I could see on Holmes's neck and the other on the side of his face. He winced but made no sound as I gently cleaned the wounds, thanking me once I was done – then he impatiently turned back to Mycroft.

"Now, brother, tell me what has happened! What have you found?"

"Sherlock, have you slept at all since this business started?" Mycroft fired a question of his own at his hyperactive younger brother.

Said younger brother bristled indignantly, and I recognized the signs of an approaching nervous breakdown – those occurrences were more frequent than I would have liked, for Holmes had little or no regard for his own health, though he was quite caring about mine.

I wondered if I could get him to sleep for a while.

I, get Holmes to sleep? I scoffed mentally at the very notion.

I saw Mycroft's eyes upon me, and as I looked at him, he glanced at my bag, then at Holmes, and then back to me, nodding slightly.

Did I interpret his meaning correctly?

Mycroft was about to answer his brother's increasingly vehement questions when Mrs. Hudson arrived with our dinner. I smiled as the man's eyes lit up at the sight of the hearty meal, complete with a full pot of Mrs. Hudson's hot tea. That gave me an idea.

As Mycroft started for the table, I slipped a paper packet into my pocket from my bag and rose to follow. Holmes took my elbow almost mechanically and guided me over to the table, where he sat on top of his desk and peered down at us while we ate.

I was reminded rather uncomfortably of a vulture, so predatory did he look perched up there. Mycroft sighed and began his tale as we started the meal.

"I traced that Tartan plaid, Sherlock, Doctor," he began, "and found something very singular."

"Spare us the poetry, Mycroft!" Holmes snapped. Truly, the man's iron constitution was crying for a rest, and Mycroft looked warningly at me.

"That Tartan, Sherlock, belongs to the sept of Gersauch. It was a part of the clan Farquharson over a hundred years ago."

"_Was_, you say?" I asked, picking up on the word.

"Yes, Doctor. Was. The Gersauch sept has become extinct."

"Obviously not, since the Tartan is still active, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his brows knitting with interest.

"That is not all, Sherlock," Mycroft said, digging with great gusto into his meal, "There have been whispers among the Scottish informants that a radical anarchist group has been appropriating various little-known Tartans and names to use as identification within their circles."

"Anarchists?" I gasped.

"Yes, Doctor. This Tartan is one of three that we know of as being apparently active, although all members have been deceased for over a hundred years."

"That is very suggestive," Holmes said, steepling his fingers together and gazing at us.

"Yes, Sherlock. I would wager that the thistle, coupled with the identification of this Gersauch Tartan, is an identification of the group that killed your brother, Doctor. Whether or not he was one of them, or whether he just knew too much, we cannot ascertain yet."

"Then I suppose our next step is to board the Flying Scotsman(1) and head straight for Edinburgh and then on to Rythclythe!" Holmes cried, flying off the desk and beginning to pace up and down.

Mycroft glared at him, and then he frowned, his great broad brow furrowing.

"Wait a moment! Sherlock!"

Holmes spun around at his brother's tone. "Mycroft?"

"We have been fools! Do you not see, that there has to be a reason why these people are just now coming after Watson here? Andrew has been dead for nearly a year – why just now?"

"I would say, that the watch has just come into his possession, but –"

"But I have had nothing of Andrew's come into my possession since the funeral in January," I said.

"Then the only remaining explanation is…"

"That the group has only just learned of the watch's whereabouts," Sherlock finished his brother's statement. "But where does that leave us? How would they have found out, at any rate, Mycroft?"

Suddenly the solution lit up before me like a flash of lightning illuminating a landscape.

"The _Strand Magazine_," I whispered.

"The what?"

"The_ Sign of the Four_, correct, Doctor?" Mycroft asked me. I nodded.

Then Sherlock made the deduction for himself, slapping his forehead in dismay.

"Of course! Your florid story told the entire literate populace that your brother had died and left his watch to you!"

"My stories are _NOT_ florid!" I said indignantly – he really did need some sleep.

Mycroft snickered. "You have had this discussion before, I see."

I laughed at that, wincing as I again forgot about my ribs – the sharp pain that shot through me was a horrid reminder of my injury.

At my gasp, both Holmeses turned worried grey eyes upon me.

"So the watch is the key to the affair?" I asked.

"Not the subtlest change of subject, Doctor," Mycroft said, fixing me with a piercing glare.

"No, it isn't. Well?"

Holmes shot me a congratulatory grin as Mycroft scowled.

"That seems to be the logical conclusion, Doctor. Your story told the world that your brother had apparently died of drink and that you now were in possession of his watch. And a few weeks after the story came out –"

"You were attacked in the street," Holmes finished his brother's statement.

"Don't interrupt me, Sherlock. It is a most annoying habit," older brother's stern rebuke was not well-received, earning him a glowering look from Sherlock.

Holmes was rapidly becoming more and more irritated, and something had to be done about it.

While the two Holmeses were engaged in a thinly veiled sarcastic argument, I tore open the packet of sleeping draught I had gotten from my bag and dumped its contents into an empty teacup. Then I poured hot tea over it – the stuff was tasteless, and besides, Holmes was in such a mood that he probably would not even know what he was drinking anyway.

"All right, that's enough," I admonished, as Mycroft's irritated voice raised louder than Sherlock's, "for heaven's sake, Holmes, sit down, and have a cup of tea. I may be forced to watch you starve yourself, but you will at least stay hydrated!"

At the fierceness of my tone, brought on by weariness and irritation, both men stopped, and Holmes gave me a glare that would have rendered most men cowering in fear. I, however, was quite used to the man's mood swings and stared right back at him, daring him to challenge me.

Holmes evidently decided it was not worth the effort, and he sat heavily down in the chair next to me, accepting the tea rather ungraciously. Mycroft sent me a questioning look, and I nodded almost imperceptibly.

He hid his grin in his own teacup, and I started to rise from the table, wanting to get comfortable in my armchair. I was pleased at the fact that I was able to wave off any offer of help from the Holmes brothers and made it to my chair without mishap.

I settled myself just in time to see Sherlock Holmes absently down the entire cup of tea in one gulp, swearing as it burned his tongue.

Mycroft sent him a disapproving glare, which the younger man promptly ignored, and seated himself on the couch.

"Then, we have just enough time to make it to the evening departure of the Flying Scotsman," Mycroft said, looking at the time – half past six – "she leaves at precisely eight minutes after ten tonight."

"We shall go to Edinburgh and continue the investigation of the Gersauch sept when we go on Rythclythe…which if I recall correctly is a small village only 8 miles outside of the capital," Holmes replied, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

I smiled knowingly at Mycroft, who asked Holmes if he were tired.

"You know I never sleep on an investigation, Mycroft!" the detective snapped.

"I know it, and regret it," his brother said with heat, "you really should take a nap before we leave."

"I am going to pack," Holmes said, storming to his bedroom and beginning to throw articles of clothing about.

"Give him six minutes," I said in a low voice to Mycroft.

Sure enough, in a little over five minutes Mycroft entered the bedroom and returned a moment later, a wide grin spreading across his wide face.

"He can get at least three hours in before we have to leave," I said, rising a little unsteadily as Mycroft started to don his coat.

"Thank you, Doctor. I do appreciate your caring for him, in pain though I know you are yourself," the man said, his keen eyes once again scanning my face.

"I shall pack for both of us."

"I will be by at half-past nine to pick you both up. Make sure you bring that watch, Doctor."

"Of course," I replied, handing the man his hat from the stand.

He accepted it with a smile. "I will write up a telegram and send it off to Mary Morstan for you. Holmes told me after the Sholto murder case that you two had been engaged and we would not want her to worry. I will tell her you are engaged on a case with Sherlock and myself."

I stammered my thanks, for during the few hours that I had been conscious over the past day I had neglected to think of such a precaution. Indeed, in the light of the revelations I had learned about my brother I had not had time to think of my the gentle, wonderful woman who had consented to be my wife.

I sighed now at the thought of her, and my heart panged a little. I was infinitely grateful that she she was safe and away from this dreadful business.

"And, Doctor?" the elder Holmes asked, pausing for a moment on the stairs.

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Please, do remember to take care of yourself as well as my brother," the man said, looking at me with a brotherly regard, "I should not like to have to lose either of you."

I felt my face flush uncomfortably as I stammered a promise to do so, and that extraordinary man went on down the steps, puffing and out of breath when he finally reached the bottom, and exited our rooms.

1. The Flying Scotsman was the name of a train that traveled from London England to Edinburgh Scotland.

TBC…


	13. Closer Than a Brother

Pro 18:24: " A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother."

Chapter 13: "Closer than a Brother"

_**Watson:**_

"Sherlock, for heaven's sake do stop that infernal sulking! It is most unbecoming to a man your age!"

Mycroft Holmes's exasperated words filled the strained atmosphere in the four-wheeler as we rattled along our way to the station, dashing through the wet streets at a mad pace to make the Flying Scotsman for Edinburgh.

I snickered at the elder brother's words and then hastily erased the smile from my face when Sherlock Holmes sent a scathing glare in my direction.

My friend was rather prone to hold a grudge over anyone who beat him at his own game, and he was completely unappreciative of my underhanded method of making sure he rested before the journey.

Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward and settled back into the cushions across from Holmes and myself. We were making rapid time, for we had little to spare, and the cab rattled away through the streets at a dreadful rate.

Suddenly the driver skidded round a rain-slicked street corner, slippery with the recent storm, sending Sherlock Holmes's rather bony frame slamming violently into mine. The sudden flashing pang that shot through my body at the rough contact forced a muffled cry of pain from my lips, and his face turned white.

"Watson, I am sorry!"

"It – it's all right, Holmes," I replied stiffly, endeavoring to remain upright as the cab flew around another corner, nearly sending my bad arm flying into the wall of the cab.

"Was it necessary to cut this time so closely, Mycroft?" the younger brother asked in annoyance as we flew down the street.

"We had not counted on the lingering effects of that sleeping draught, Sherlock – you always have been the very devil to wake up, you know, even _without_ a sedative," older brother replied, scowling at the younger.

Sherlock folded his arms and glared at his sibling in an extremely immature pout, and I once again was hard put not to smile at the brothers' antics. But my amusement suddenly turned to another gasp of pain as we went over a large pot-hole in the cobbled road.

"Easy, old chap, we're almost there," Holmes murmured softly, and I was rather pleased to see that his former irritation with me had now turned to concern.

Mycroft's grey eyes were twinkling as he overheard Holmes's change of tone, and he grinned knowingly at me and then turned his face toward the window to hide the fact.

I was very, very thankful when we finally did reach the station, with only a few moments to spare before the train departed. Sherlock sprinted up the platform with our tickets and his and my carpetbags, while Mycroft got heavily down from the cab and paid the driver, then offered me his hand to help me gingerly down.

"Do the two of you always cut the trains so closely, Doctor? Sherlock is behaving as if he has done this many times before," the man puffed as we dashed as quickly as my injuries would allow through the crowded platform.

We watched as Holmes jumped into an empty first-class compartment and motioned for us to hurry – the conductor was shutting all the doors.

"Yes, this is – the normal – order – of things," I gasped, intense pain shooting through my chest as we hurried toward the train, "Just – usually – I can – keep up with – your brother!"

Mycroft worriedly took my elbow to help me along, and an instant later we caught up with his brother. Mycroft tossed his bag onto the floor of the compartment and pushed me gently inside, where Holmes grasped my one good arm and helped me aboard.

"Hurry up, Mycroft!" he barked, turning to see his older brother puffing heavily, trying to squeeze through the tiny compartment door.

"You might give me a hand, Sherlock!" the man growled, heaving himself through the door with difficulty just as the train began to pick up speed.

I was a little relieved to hear the younger Holmes laugh outright for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, but I was rather busily engaged in trying to catch my breath without putting my strained ribcage through more torture, slightly bent over trying not to wheeze more than necessary.

Holmes dropped into the seat beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. At his worried query, I nodded and said I was fine, simply out of breath. I heard a faint sigh of relief as he got up and began to toss the bags up into the luggage rack over our heads, and I smiled when he could not see me.

When he had thrown the luggage up into the rack, he settled back beside me and pulled out a map of Rathclythe and the surrounding area around Edinburgh, beginning to study it closely. Mycroft, still as out of breath as I was, glanced at me, shrugging, and then said he was going to go to the dining car for a sandwich.

I stifled a laugh, for it had only been three hours since we had had dinner at Baker Street, and the man looked at me with a somewhat sheepish grin and opened the door to the corridor.

"Doctor, would you like anything?" he asked.

"No, thank you, Mycroft," I responded, glancing at Holmes.

"Would you mind if I took your brother's watch with me to inspect it once more, Doctor? It now seems to be the key to the whole affair, though I do not know why at the present time."

"Yes, of course," I replied, taking the piece from my waistcoat pocket and handing it to the elder Holmes.

Then both of us glanced at the younger Holmes, still intent on his perusal of those papers.

He had not heard a word of our exchange, scribbling circles and notes on the map he was holding. Mycroft rolled his eyes once again, smiled tolerantly at me, and left the compartment.

When I had handed over the watch, I had glanced at the time – nearly half-past ten. We would be in Edinburgh by late morning tomorrow.

I was not in the least bit sleepy, for I had spent most of the day under the influence of morphine – but I was tired from the unusual exertions of the last few hours and from the draining emotional duress I had been under, and so I decided to lean back and close my eyes to rest a bit.

The rain started up again as we sped along, and its soothing clatter upon the roof was oddly comforting – but the temperature was dropping a little, and I soon wished I had brought my heavier ulster instead of my raincoat.

But my thoughts were not upon myself as I leaned back on the train seat, my mind filling with memories of Andrew and myself when we were younger, before he had fallen upon such evil days. After talking with Mycroft, I no longer felt that dark black despair about such remembrances, but rather only a bittersweet sadness.

How long I lay there, trying to relax, I do not know – I was only brought out of my reverie by a rustling noise beside me. Cracking one eyelid half open, I saw Sherlock Holmes rise, take off his Inverness, and gently place it over me. Then he walked out into the corridor, shutting the door silently behind him.

I smiled – he was _not_ entirely oblivious to his surroundings, and I was touched by his small gestures of concern that he continued to show throughout this dreadful business.

Content in the knowledge that, whatever the truth would turn out to be, I had two staunch friends at my back to aid me in facing the ghosts of my past, I finally drifted off into a much-needed nap.

* * *

_Holmes_

I closed the door of the compartment as softly as I could, not wanting to awaken Watson. Poor chap, he had to be exhausted from the events of the last twenty-four hours. The fact that he was even mobile was strong testimony to his remarkable character.

But I knew he was not doing quite as well as he pretended to be – the pain he was in was evident in his haunted eyes, and I knew I should have to watch him carefully to prevent a relapse.

I had vaguely overheard my brother mentioning something about a sandwich – little wonder, it had been an entire three hours since he had last eaten! – and so I made my way along the corridors to the dining car to have a talk with him free from Watson's presence.

I found my brother at a small corner table, reading a newspaper and consuming what remained of an enormous roast beef sandwich. I seated myself, ordered a cup of coffee, and waited for him to acknowledge my presence.

"The Doctor is asleep, I hope, Sherlock?"

"I would not have left him if he were not, brother," I said, somewhat indignantly, "I am not such an uncaring cad as you seem to believe."

That got his attention, and the paper lowered to reveal the mirror image of my own sharp eyes.

"I never said anything of the kind, Sherlock. I merely want to make sure the Doctor does not think in such a way about you."

I was startled at that revelation, and my face must have showed my discomfort, for my brother steered the conversation away from me.

"I had quite an interesting talk with your friend, Sherlock, this afternoon before you unceremoniously burst into the room fresh from battle," Mycroft told me, his eyes scanning my face for a reaction. I gave him none.

"And?"

My brother detailed to me the basics of that discussion, and I frowned at the knowledge that Watson had needed to talk to someone and I had not been there.

"He is still a very ill man, Sherlock. We must keep an eye on him throughout this journey – it is going to be extremely trying to his shattered nerves," my brother warned me, finishing off his sandwich.

I gulped the steaming coffee, swearing as it burned my throat on the way down.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed in displeasure.

"Now Mycroft, about this radical anarchist group that you suspect may have resurrected this Gersauch sept. Do you suppose the watch is all they want from Watson, as Mcallister indicated?"

Mycroft shrugged his enormous shoulders"We may not find that out until we can trace Andrew Watson's movements in Scotland, Sherlock. You know as well as I that we cannot form theories until we have more data."

My brother pulled Andrew's watch from a pocket and studied it. Then he handed it to me, and I took out my lens and pried the back off.

"You agreed with me, and so did Watson, that his brother was an addicted alcoholic," I said by way of conversation, looking at the inside of the watch. Again I saw the numbers inside the back cover – then I frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Have you considered Mycroft…there are four sets of numbers scratched here inside the case."

"The ones you deduced to be a pawnbroker's tickets. What about them?"

"Surely if the watch had been pawned because of Andrew's drinking habits, it would have had been hawked more than four times in the nine years he had it before he death," I said, raising my puzzled eyes to meet my brother's.

His forehead wrinkled. "Perhaps, Sherlock. But then what is the significance of the numbers?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea. But they are the only irregularity. If these anarchists you speak of are really after the watch, than they may be the reason." I snapped the cover back on the item and stuffed it and my lens into my pocket.

Then I sighed, realizing as I did so how very tired I was – even with that enforced nap earlier this afternoon. I rose from the table, and Mycroft followed suit, leaving money for his meal on the white tablecloth.

We walked back along the corridor to our compartment, and I at least was deep in thought, my mind very disturbed by this whole business. I suddenly felt a desire to check on Watson and make sure all was well with him, and so I quickened my pace between cars.

As I reached the car that held our compartment, I suddenly heard a sound that made my blood run cold and an icy wave of fear sweep over me.

A frantic, half-choked cry for help, coming from our compartment at the end of the car!

Someone was in there with Watson – he had been asleep, still badly injured and with one good arm, and left absolutely unprotected.

And there were radical, murderous anarchists hot on our trail!

_What had I been thinking?_

At that sickening realization, I broke into a dead panicked run, Mycroft puffing worriedly at my heels.

Within two seconds I had reached the compartment door and burst in, yanking the tall man off of the now feebly-struggling form of my dearest friend, slamming the ruffian as hard as I could with a choking death-grip into the wall of the corridor.

The fellow was tall, dark-haired, and judging by the Scotch accent evidenced in his alcohol-enhanced cursing, he was the other man who had nearly killed Watson the other night – the one who had attacked him with a club on a dark street.

The vision made my anger ten times stronger than before, and it blinded me to the fact that he held that same club in his hand at the present moment.

My instincts gave me a bare second's warning as his one free arm brought the weapon in a violent death-dealing swing at my head, and I had just time to dodge the blow by dropping to the ground.

In the instant my hands left his throat, the man took off running toward the end of the car, and within the second I was following suit.

He threw open the outside door and looked at the passing scenery – we were going uphill and had slowed down a bit, but we were still going dreadfully fast – surely he was not going to jump?

But as I dove for the man, he did indeed jump – screaming horribly as he misjudged the distance and was pulled under the train wheels…

I turned my gaze away, a sick feeling churning in my stomach at the horrible, gory sight.

But then my cold fury rushed back to my mind – it was no more than he deserved for what he had done to Watson and probably to his brother. I only regretted that whatever information the villain held had just died with him. He would be of no help to us in finding out who was really after Watson.

Watson – I had forgotten about him in my rage – was he hurt?

I turned and sprinted back to our compartment, where I found my older brother trying to help my friend off the floor of the compartment and back to his seat – Mycroft was having trouble bending down that far.

I instantly appeared on Watson's other side, slinging his good arm over my shoulder and half-pulling, half-carrying him over to the seat, where he collapsed, shaking violently all over, his face as pale and scared as my own.

"Sherlock?" I heard my brother's worried voice.

"He tried to jump and was pulled under the train," I stated matter-of-factly, trying to ascertain if Watson had been further injured or was just badly shaken up by the attack.

He was breathing hoarsely, his face contorted with pain, clinging to me as a drowning man clings to a life-preserver.

"Watson, did he –"

"It – it's all right, Holmes," he gasped, his hand tightening on my arm at a spasm of pain, "just – just frightened me, that's all – I was – asleep, and – and he just appeared – I – I couldn't fight, not with one arm –"

"Shh, my dear chap, it's all right. Don't try to talk about it yet – I am sure that filthy blackguard did even further damage to your injuries," I said, trying desperately to get him to calm down and sit back in the seat.

Finally he did so, but his grip did not loosen on my arm, as if he were afraid I was going to leave him alone again. I kicked myself mentally for doing so in the first place.

Mycroft picked up my tangled coat from the floor and set it on the seat opposite us before collapsing beside it, his worried eyes taking in both our petrified faces.

After a few minutes, the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof and the peaceful swaying of the train, together with my quiet words of encouragement, seemed to settle Watson's nerves, and his death grip on my arm loosened at last as his breathing evened out and slowed to it's normal rate.

"I – I am certainly glad you came back when you did, Holmes," he said at last, coughing a little and then wincing at the fresh pain.

"So am I, my dear fellow," I said fervently, "was he after the watch?"

Watson coughed again, and I tightened the supporting arm I still had round his shoulders.

"Yes. I – I was asleep when he grabbed me. He was rifling through my pockets and muttering to himself." Watson said, his brow wrinkling with thought.

"What did he say?"

Watson swallowed and closed his eyes as though this would aid his concentration.

"Something to the effect of: 'Where is it? He must have it. They know now because of him." My friend's eyes opened and he met my gaze with a look of fear. "He said your name several times...he was terribly angry…desperate."

"He must have realized when his partner did not show up to meet him that I had gotten to him first," I said.

"Yes, it's a good thing I had given the watch to you, Mycroft," my friend declared, indicating his empty waistcoat pocket.

I sighed with relief, my arm tightening convulsively on Watson's still trembling shoulders – had the Scot known that the watch was not on my friend's person, then he probably would not have escaped with only a bad scare.

Or if I had not come back when I did.

The thought of what could have happened sent a cold shiver down my spine, and I vowed by all I held dear that I would not let Watson out of my sight for the remainder of this case.

I could not, and would not, take chances with the life of the only person in the world I could truly say I cared about outside of my brother.

TBC…


	14. Hand to His Brother

"There is not a man of us who does not at times need a helping hand to be stretched out to him, and then shame upon him who will not stretch out the helping hand to his brother. "

– Teddy Roosevelt

Chapter 14: "Hand to His Brother"

_**Watson:**_

_It was dark and the train was moving rapidly causing the only lights outside to flash like ghosts through the windows before vanishing again. The rapid pace of the engine made the cars sway wildly, the floor beneath my feet was more like the deck of a ship than anything else._

_I braced myself against the wall and made my way unsteadily forward, stumbling in the smothering blackness…I passed empty compartments, and numerous empty cars…certain that at any moment I would feel an unknown being snatch at my legs or my neck._

_I shook off the fear…I could not afford to be afraid…not now…I had to move on._

_The car shook and slammed me against one of the walls causing my ribs to pang and I cried out in agony…tumbling to the floor. _

_Something snatched at my legs…dragging me backward into the darkness from which I had come. I twisted around to see…and could make out only a pair of unearthly red-rimmed, human eyes and white, claw-like hands that were as pale as the cadavers I had studied in my university days. _

_Pure terror seized me as I tried to break the iron-like grip. __I could not fight this thing…not alone._

_I called for help screaming the name of the one person who would always come._

_"Holmes!" my voice was weak and frenzied…surely he could not hear me. _

_But he must!_

_"Holmes!"_

_I heard his voice…distantly…he was there!_

_But my joy faded as I made out the words. _

_"Watson!"_

_It was as desperate as mine…terrified…begging for my help. But I needed his._

_"Watson __please__!"_

_The cry sent a ripple of energy through me. And with a snarl of pain and rage I kicked at the thing holding me. It dissipated before my eyes…and I was again hurrying down the corridor as swiftly as my injuries would allow, towards his voice which continued to plead for help._

_I reached the car where he was, clutching my ribs gasping for breath._

_There was the compartment…just ahead…_

_"Watson?"_

_"I'm coming Holmes!"_

_I reached the compartment and saw that it was empty…_

_His voice was coming from the far end, the door to the platform hung open._

_I stumbled to it to see Holmes hanging by his pale hands from the railing…above him stood y attacker with his club._

_Holmes looked to me desperately his grey eyes alight with fear, my attacker raised his club above my friend's head._

_Now was the moment to act but I felt too weak to move…I was not going fast enough._

_I would not reach him in time._

_The club came down on Holmes' head and he went limp…his fingers were sliding from the bar._

_I dove forward, feeling the burn of the carpet as I did __so,__ I grasped one of his hands and seized hold of the railing at the same time._

_My injured arm screamed with the strain…Holmes was a dead __weight,__ if I let him go he would be pulled under the wheels. _

_If I did not I would be pulled with him._

_The attacker was not gone…he loomed over us. I looked up into his face…_

_…and it was not my attacker's any more….but Andrew's._

_His youthful face creased into its familiar smile and he bent down to take my hand. _

_I felt Holmes slipping…I had to hold on!_

The train jolted again and it shot a second wave of pain through my ribs, I gasped and opened my eyes. Our compartment was still…Mycroft was slumped in the seat across from me…and beside me…

I reached out to grip his bony arm and went almost limp with relief. His quiet even breathing reassured me and I dared to look.

Holmes was awake and was watching me. His eyes traveled my face.

"Watson?" he asked quietly.

I opened my mouth to speak, but quite suddenly it was too dry, the compartment was too small…it was all pressing down on me.

I shook my head and got to my feet ignoring the aches and pains, I brushed past him and into the corridor.

I heard him follow, his footsteps echoing through the corridor after mine.

"Watson."

I stopped at the urgency and concern in his voice, and waited until he had caught up to me, than I turned to face him.

His brows were creased into a knot of worry. "What is wrong Watson?"

I took a bracing breath. "Nothing is wrong Holmes…I…"

He took a step closer and gripped my shoulder, his eyes still searching my face as though he could deduce what was wrong with me.

"A nightmare." He said.

I nodded.

"Are you alright?"

"No." I let out the breath shakily, felt the frustration and anger rise again. I felt so helpless, not just in the dream but now. So useless as I was. I hated it. "No I'm bloody well not!"

Holmes' grip tightened and he sighed. "I'm sorry Watson."

I looked at his him…and felt the anger drain away at once. Rarely have I seen his face so open and honest as it was then. He _was_ sorry…I could see the hurt and the weariness in his expression…as well as the sympathy.

"It's not your fault Holmes…" I said, "It never was blast it all!"

He stood and waited while I turned away and faced the window…watching the green countryside and the morning, sky.

I rubbed my eyes with my left hand and leaned against it, letting my forehead rest on the cool glass. "I'm afraid."

Holmes leaned against the wall beside me, his hands stuck in his trouser pockets, his eyes watching out the window.

"Of your attackers?"

I shook my head. "No Holmes…of you."

This made him look at me sharply and his brow furrowed again. I met his gaze.

"I'm afraid you'll be killed. This dreadful business has nothing to do with you...and you are careless Holmes…he could have thrown you from the car last night…Mcallister could have killed you."

"He was hardly skilled enough Watson." Holmes said, his lips twitching.

I said nothing.

Holmes sobered and frowned. "You honestly fear that I will not come out of this in one piece?"

"I am afraid to lose you." I said…somewhat shocked by my own openness. I had never told Holmes this before.

Holmes opened his mouth in sudden realization. "Like you lost your brother."

I nodded again and closed my eyes. What must he think of me? Throughout this whole business I behaved wretchedly…let my emotions rule me…

And I was afraid….though I would never admit as much to him. I had been afraid I would die on that lonely dark street…alone in that compartment. I was afraid to lose my life almost as much as I feared to lose him.

Almost.

"Watson." He spoke softly. I turned to face him…and stiffened in surprise as his, strong sinewy arms pulled me to his chest in a hug.

So surprised was I at his spontaneous action, that I did not react at once. Sherlock Holmes was not given to shows of emotion…let alone, physical expressions of said emotions. But I was too surprised to tell him so.

His quiet strength was reassuring, and I felt the anxiety drain away as I returned the hug awkwardly with my one good arm, not caring that the embrace was making my ribs protest.

Holmes broke the embrace and stood back a bit, clasping my shoulder's warmly. He smiled and his eyes searched my face for a third time. "My dear Watson…it will always be my greatest joy and privilege to serve you…as you have done for me countless times."

I swallowed and felt my heart warm with gratitude at his words.

"I promise you…we will come through this…perhaps not unscathed. That is the price we must pay for declaring war on such evil…but we will always come through it together."

I looked into his very earnest gray eyes…and knew that he meant it.

And if Sherlock Holmes said it than by heaven it was enough for me.

"Thank you Holmes." I said, straightening and squaring my shoulders "That…that means a great deal to me."

He grinned. "You are most welcome old fellow."

I returned the smile and he put his arm round my shoulder leading me back to the compartment. "Come on then my staunch Boswell…let us wake Mycroft and take him to breakfast…we have only a few hours till we reach the station and my brother does not do well when deprived of both food and sleep."

I laughed at that, and reveled in the lightness the sound. My heart lifted a little, Holmes was right. Whatever terrible storms crossed our paths in the future, we would weather them together.

TBC…


	15. The Crowding Years Divide

"Men die, but sorrow never dies; The crowding years divide in vain, And the wide world is knit with ties of common brotherhood in pain."  
-Sarah Chauncey Woolsey, The Cradle Tomb in Westminster Abbey

Chapter 15: "The Crowding Years Divide"

_**Watson:**_

I stood for a moment, looking about me at the city I had not seen in so many years – since the last family holiday we had taken before Mother died. We had so many memories of Edinburgh that we had chosen other places in Scotland to vacation in as a family after her death, and I had not seen the city since I was a boy.

It appeared to not have changed much, and I felt an odd thrill to see the stately buildings in the distance where I knew the downtown district to be, as well as the sky that yet remained blue even through the smog and fog of the metropolis.

I was startled out of my musing by a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I turned to look into the face of Sherlock Holmes, his grey eyes gazing at me with concern.

Although I was still fighting down that cloud of fear, that came at the thought of facing the group that had mercilessly murdered my brother, that had overtaken me on the journey, this city held nothing but memories for me. The pain of them had long since departed, leaving only their sweetness behind, and the smile I gave Holmes was a real one.

Without saying a word, his own thin lips twitched in a reassuring grin and he bent to pick up my luggage as well as his, despite my protests that I wanted to try and at least carry a valise by myself.

Mycroft had bustled off to get a cab, muttering something about wanting to find a comfortable hotel with a decent restaurant adjoining, and we now saw him motioning to us from further on down the platform.

The station-master had recommended a certain hotel within walking distance of the downtown, and I was rather relieved to know that we were not going to be doing any more traveling in the immediately following hours – I was completely exhausted, and I believe it showed.

We reached the hotel in a matter of minutes, and to my surprise, Mycroft remained in the cab after Holmes had helped me down from it and grabbed the luggage once more.

"I am going to the Scottish police headquarters," he told us, "Whitehall strictly ordered me to check in with them on the instant of my arrival. We may need them, at any rate, and I also wish to find out particulars as to your brother's death, Doctor. I shall rejoin you both for tea."

I nodded, not really caring what happened at that moment other than finding a place to try and catch a nap, and Holmes guided me inside the place without further ado.

The man at the desk had a fascinating Scottish burr, and at the sound of it more memories assaulted my mind, and I smiled a little sadly at some of the remembrances. Holmes obtained the keys to two double-bedded rooms with a sitting room between them, and he was rather glad to turn our luggage over to a bellboy.

Once the door had shut behind us, Holmes inspected the three rooms and found them apparently to his liking – he amazed me sometimes at how picky he could be, especially when we were on a case and he usually paid little attention to his surroundings.

I sat down gingerly on one of the beds and was inordinately pleased to feel its beckoning softness.

Holmes must have heard the creaking of springs, for I heard his muffled voice from inside the wardrobe in which he was hanging his Inverness.

"Please, Watson, do lie down for a while – I do not want to have to force you to rest, but I shall if it is necessary!"

I chuckled softly, for a moment forgetting that misty fear swirling around the back of my mind, but then winced as I again forgot about the pain in my damaged ribcage and was sharply reminded.

"What – what are you going to be doing, Holmes?" I asked, hoping I did not sound as pathetic as I felt just then.

Sherlock Holmes turned from the wardrobe and looked at me, his austere eyes softening slightly as he smiled at me understandingly.

"I am not going anywhere, dear chap. I shall not leave you here alone," he said gently.

With that kind reassurance from the man I would trust with my very life, I felt quite safe in turning down the bedclothes and soon dropped into a (thankfully) dreamless sleep.

I was abruptly wakened some time later by a heavy crash in the adjoining room. Opening my eyes, I saw the door to the sitting room open and Sherlock Holmes's thin frame standing in the doorway with his back to me.

"Mycroft!" he hissed.

"Well, I didn't see the confounded table, Sherlock!" the man's annoyed voice came clearly through the open door, and I laughed, feeling slightly better after having got a much-needed few hours' sleep.

At the sound of my soft chuckle, Holmes turned and looked at me.

"Now you've done it, brother!" he growled, turning back to Mycroft, who had appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, I do apologize, Doctor," the portly man said, his large face flushing uncomfortably.

"It's quite all right, Mycroft – I want to hear what you have discovered, anyway," I replied, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the movement jolted me yet again.

"Did you sleep well, Doctor? You rather looked as if you needed it," the man asked me, his ample brow creasing with a worry line.

"Yes, indeed, I believe I did," I said, standing to my feet. At the sudden movement my legs wobbled a little, and Holmes reflexively jumped for me, a supporting hand on my elbow.

"What time is it, Holmes?"

"After three, Watson. You slept for almost four and a half hours," Holmes said, his voice betraying his immense relief that I had done so without incident.

"I think we could all do with some tea and early dinner," Mycroft Holmes stated, ringing for the bellboy.

"Or rather a second lunch, brother?" Sherlock snickered, leading me to a seat in the sitting room.

Mycroft Holmes's face flushed once more under his younger brother's teasing, but I had to say the man had it coming to him for his merciless treatment of the younger back in Baker Street.

I grinned, remembering not to laugh this time and strain my ribcage, as Holmes set the offensive table upright that his portly brother had apparently not seen upon his entrance to the room a few minutes previously.

"What have you found out about Andrew, Mycroft?" I asked after the man had given orders for a lunch to be brought up.

"Are you sure you are really up to hearing about the details, Watson?" Holmes asked, his face a picture of concern.

I swallowed and thought for a moment – was I really ready to hear the true facts?

The images of the two men who had been after me, in London and then on the train, flashed into my mind. I choked down the mounting fear with difficulty – then I remembered something.

Holmes had been attacked once already by the man Mcallistair. And according to the other, the group now knew that Holmes was aware of the possible significance of the watch.

He was in as much danger as I now – and the faster we found the anarchists, the sooner he, and I as well, would finally be safe.

With a start, I finally realized that both Holmeses were looking at me worriedly.

"Yes, I am ready," I said firmly.

"Good man, Doctor," Mycroft said softly, seating his ponderous form at the table so that he would not be forced to move again when the meal was brought in.

Holmes flashed me a look of pride and then sat beside me on the couch, and we both looked at the elder brother expectantly.

"I saw the head of the Scottish police force headquartered here in Edinburgh, and he promised me full cooperation in tracking down this supposed anarchist threat. They have had only vague indications of unrest around the capital, nothing at all definite."

Holmes and I nodded.

"They could give me no details about the suspected anarchists, but I was able to gain all the information they still retained about your unfortunate brother's demise, Doctor. Took the force nearly an hour to locate all the facts, but they finally rose to the occasion."

Mycroft Holmes took a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and began to peruse their contents. I braced myself for the details I knew would be forthcoming, and Holmes shot me a worried look.

"Your brother, Doctor, was found at seven o'clock on the morning of January the 11th. A farmer on his way into town saw the body lying at the bottom of a steep embankment beside the road between Edinburgh and Rathclythe," Mycroft said, glancing at me.

I nodded.

"He called the police – the location was just inside the Edinburgh jurisdiction, although Andrew Watson seemed to frequent the Rathclythe and surrounding country area rather than the town – we need to check, Sherlock, and find where he lived, for no one at the headquarters seemed to know."

"Right, Mycroft."

"I have the coroner's report here, Doctor, if you would like to see it – or would you prefer I read it to you?" the older Holmes asked me.

"I should like to see it," I said, glad my voice was steady.

The man handed the document over without a word, and Holmes moved closer so that he could look over my shoulder at it.

The sight of the name, Andrew Watson, on the top of a police coroner's report, sent the awful finality of the thing clawing its way violently into my mind with an almost physical pain.

I closed my eyes for a moment and drew a long, shuddering breath. Feeling Holmes's hand on my arm, I opened my eyes again and mutely nodded to his worried question. Then I resolutely turned my attention to the document in my hands.

According to the police reports, the autopsy had shown an enormous level of alcohol in the blood and digestive organs, indicating a level far beyond that of intoxication. My unhappy brother's neck had obviously been broken in the fall, and the coroner ruled death by misfortune.

I rubbed my eyes wearily as if trying to blot out the sight of that name at the top and passed the document on to Holmes.

"The night was in the middle of a sudden ice storm, Doctor, according to the reports," Mycroft went on, "and the general consensus was that he had missed his footing in the dark on the icy path, especially since being inebriated and therefore unsteady, and had fallen to his death."

"Last January, I was only told that he had died in an alcohol-related accident," I said shakily, "I had no desire to know details and so asked for none."

"I am sorry, Doctor," the elder Holmes said quietly.

"So – Andrew was pushed, you believe," I asked, "the – the murder – made easier by his intoxicated state?"

"That seems to be the logical conclusion," Mycroft answered.

"Watson," Holmes said softly.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"This document says your brother was buried here, in Rathclythe - you did not know this?"

"He – he was buried here?" I asked, trying to absorb that information.

"Yes, according to this report," my friend repeated slowly.

"No, I did not know," I whispered. "They were not able to locate me until a couple of weeks after the fact, when a friend told the authorities that Andrew's only living relative was supposed to be living in London. It is a wonder they were even able to trace me at all."

I drew a long, shaky breath as I realized that my brother's grave was in that same little town that we were to visit to begin our investigations – yet another ghost of my past I was going to have to face.

"I did not know it was Rathclythe," I said at last, "I was told he died in Edinburgh and buried around here somewhere. The man who contacted me – I cannot even remember who he was. We were in the midst of that case in France at the time, Holmes; do you remember, the one with the Countess D'Amare and the ruby tiara –"

"Yes, my dear fellow," Holmes said softly, "why the devil did you not tell me, Watson? I never would have pushed us both so hard had I known you were grieving!"

"I – I don't know," I replied, desperately trying to keep control of myself as the remembrances from that case came flooding back.

Holmes had been ecstatic about being in Paris with an especially intriguing case, and I had received the tragic news while he was away from our lodgings for an extended period. As Mycroft had said Holmes had done regarding his parents' death, I simply had not accepted the fact of Andrew's demise at the time – I had bottled up those feelings of guilt and grief and focused instead on the problem at hand; the case upon which we had been engaged.

"Watson, you should have told me," I heard my friend say, grief and guilt evident in his voice.

I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking, trying desperately to rein in those feelings now swirling to the fore.

I remembered denying the fact of my brother's death by such a sordid method such as liquor, denied it until the hard evidence of having to deal with the estate hit me like a violent slap in the face. I had not wanted to deal with the grief, and so I had told the agent who contacted me to sell everything other than family heirlooms and books, and to send the rest of the things to me.

And that was why Holmes had not even known about my brother until I handed him that blasted watch to try and occupy his mind from taking another dose of cocaine that fateful day last spring.

I felt a firm arm steal round my shoulders and knew that Holmes was feeling guilty over not deducing that something was wrong with me at the time of that case – he always had been, and still was, oblivious to his surroundings when on a problem, and he certainly was not to blame.

I took a long, shaky breath, willing my nerves to be still, and then looked up at the two pairs of worried grey eyes that were now watching me.

"McGyver," I said, wishing my voice would hold steady, "Douglass McGyver – the agent who took care of Andrew's estate for me. He lives in Edinburgh – he can help us find out about Andrew's history in Scotland."

I had forgotten about the man until now, for he was a part of my memory that I had tried so hard to block out and succeeded in doing so until now.

"Douglass McGyver," Mycroft repeated, scribbling the name down on a piece of paper, "a solicitor?"

"Yes," I whispered, trying to remember the vague details of that awful event, "I have no idea of his whereabouts though, Mycroft – I am sorry."

"Do not apologize, Doctor," the man said sharply, "you have been through too much too bravely to be sorry for anything. It is I who should apologize for not being more delicate in my informing you of the details."

I was about to protest his statement when the door opened to admit the headwaiter carrying our meal.

"Do you think you can eat something, Watson?" Holmes asked quietly, his arm still around my shoulders.

Truth be told, I was feeling dreadfully sick to my stomach after finally learning the facts surrounding my brother's death – but I knew Holmes would not eat if I did not, and he desperately needed to.

"I shall try, Holmes," I said, "if you will as well."

He nodded with an encouraging smile, and helped me up and over to the table.

I did my best to eat – the food was indeed excellent – but was rather unsuccessful, and even Mycroft's massive appetite was noticeably diminished after the damper our sombre conversation had thrown upon the atmosphere in the room.

Finally I gave up pushing my food around on my plate in despair and excused myself from the table, realizing I was within a few bad seconds of completely losing my composure.

Not knowing if the two Holmeses noticed my condition and not caring, I nearly fled from the sitting room and into the bedroom, where I sat shakily down on the edge of the bed, putting my face in my trembling hands.

I had to regain my control – this case was far from being done with, and both Holmes and Mycroft needed me to be strong. They had no extra time to deal with a distraught companion, and I had not the right to inconvenience them more than I had already by my state of mind.

I was taking a deep breaths, ignoring the shooting pain in my chest, counting to one hundred in a desperate effort to calm myself, when I felt the bed creak as someone quietly sat down beside me.

"Watson?"

Sherlock Holmes's uncertain voice was filled with a deep worry, and I knew he was struggling as to how to help me – but I was not in enough control to look at him yet.

There was a moment of dead silence.

"Oh, my dear chap. Can't I do _anything_?" His voice shook almost as much as mine had done earlier in the evening, and the sound brought me out of my black, grief-stricken depression. He was hurting as well – it was paining him to be so helpless.

I raised my head, firmly blinking back my tears, and looked at him.

"Find them, Holmes," I whispered. "That is all I ask. Help me find them."

His sad grey eyes suddenly flashed with the fire of hatred and anger I had seen in them when he had torn the Scotsman off me on the train.

"I shall, Watson," he swore intensely, the violent menace in his tone startling me, "I give you my word. I shall find them, and they shall regret what they did. We will lay your brother's ghost to rest. I swear it."

"Thank you," I whispered, and we sat like that beside each other in silence until Mycroft came into the room to tell us he was leaving again.

TBC…


	16. A Secure and Livable World

"The hope of a secure and livable world lies with disciplined nonconformists who are dedicated to justice, peace and brotherhood."

- Martin Luther King Jr.

Chapter 16: "A Secure and Livable World"

_**Mycroft:**_

I peeked into the bedroom before entering to make sure my brother and Watson were not in the midst of some private converse, but found them just sitting side by side on Watson's bed.

I told the two of them that I was about to head off.

"Leaving?" the Doctor asked, surprised at my announcement, "where to?"

"To find Andrew's solicitor." I said shrugging on my coat. "McGyver should not be difficult to locate, and he may have some important information concerning your brother's death."

The Doctor nodded and began to rise, "Perhaps we should…"

My brother at once put a restraining hand on his friend's arm and I smiled inwardly at his concern – Sherlock really was very changed since having met the Doctor. And Watson himself was a brave and stout fellow…were I in his state nothing on this earth could have persuaded me to take such a long and arduous journey.

But, stout as he was, it was evident that the efforts had taken a toll on him. He still held himself very stiffly because of his recently fractured ribs and other injuries. His still-bruised face was enough to testify to his condition - the train ride had left him pale and wan…he needed rest.

"No, Doctor." I said, "I think you would be better served to stay here with Sherlock…please, allow me take care of the official business."

My younger brother flashed me a grateful look; it was evident that he would not leave Watson alone again…but he was eager for the investigation to continue. Also I knew that Sherlock was not overly fond of officials, one of the reasons he preferred to give the credit of his cases to Scotland Yard, so that he could slip away and leave the rather messy wrap-up work to them.

I had to restrain a smile as the Doctor sank back wearily onto the bed. They were an odd pair, the two of them, and so very different – the goodhearted doctor with his frank, open, selfless personality, his kind hazel eyes, strong build, and the regulation moustache he had retained from his army days; then Sherlock with his cold enigmatic armor, analyzing mind, ruthless gaze, and exceedingly thin frame….he really did need to eat more.

But despite their differences they truly cared for each one another on levels that Sherlock and I had never reached. And they worked well as a team, the weaknesses of the one covered by the strength of the other. I had never in my life seen such two friends and I was glad.

But I was saddened as well, for they had chosen a hard road to travel…declaring war on the villains of the world much like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza…and very nearly as foolhardily. They were so very young the two of them…Sherlock was only 26, still a very young man, and the Doctor could not be more than a year or two older. They had both been dealt cruel blows in this battle, and if I judged my brother correctly than there were many more yet to come.

"You might take a look at that watch while I am gone, Sherlock…put that mind of yours to work. I shall be back in an hour or two. And please, brother, watch yourself and the Doctor."

Dr. Watson nodded and my brother appeared already to be oblivious…the secret of that watch had confounded both of us – not an easy feat, and Sherlock's overeager mind reveled at any challenge.

Putting on my hat, I sighed as I closed the door to the rooms behind me…I despaired of ever truly understanding my brother. He would burn himself out one day.

Finding the solicitor was not difficult…returning to the police station I retrieved McGyver's address and the location of his office. As chance would have it, his offices were located on the other side of Edinburgh and I was required to take a rather long ride in an extremely small cab to reach them.

The building in which they were stood small but professional, for the man was talented then and well-known but only beginning in his practice. Good. Green officials were always a great deal easier to deal with than ones who had settled comfortably in their positions. I had dealt with quite enough of them at Whitehall to know.

The only answer to my knocks was a rather curt order to 'come in.' I did so to discover a small, thin man with neat dark hair, a professional suit, and glasses, bent over a desk and writing a letter with his left hand.

"Mr. McGyver," I said as he looked up at me at last in a rather distracted manner.

"Yes." The lad said…he could not be older than Sherlock. "How did you…"

"Your assistant is obviously out with a cold," I said without ceremony gesturing at the stacks of paper on the desk which must have once been very orderly but were now jumbled haphazardly together. "You are unfamiliar with the filing system and I passed no more than seven sneezing or coughing individuals on my way here…that leaves you. May I sit down?"

The young man blinked and recovered himself, "Yes of course, Mr…"

"Holmes." I said shaking his thin, ink-stained hand. "I am sorry I do not have an appointment. I am here on rather urgent and unexpected business."

"Are you?" he said seating himself and pushing the letter aside, "Well I shall be happy to assist if I can, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you. " I sat in one of the chairs across from the desk and waited until he had settled himself comfortably.

"Not quite a year ago you settled the account of one Andrew Watson on behalf of his brother John Watson."

McGyver frowned in thought then his face lit up with sudden remembrance. "Oh yes…Mr. Watson…I met him once or twice before his unfortunate accident. January, was it not?"

I nodded, pleased at the lad's good memory – it would make things less complicated.

"Yes. I am afraid that certain suspicions of foul play have arisen concerning his death and I need all the information that you possess regarding the time he spent here in Scotland…his movements, his friends, his place of residence…and your own thoughts and experiences would be very helpful as well."

McGyver nodded slowly but his brows were creased in some consternation; no doubt the usual objections would be forthcoming and luckily I had provided for them. With a sigh I handed him the piece of paper that I had obtained just before our departure from London…this was one of the reasons I preferred to leave field work to subordinates.

The solicitor looked at the paper for a good long minute as though in doubt of its authenticity then with a swallow handed it back and I secreted it again in my wallet.

"I see Mr. Holmes." He said "Ask your questions, and I shall help you however I can."

I smiled. "Thank you. You can begin by telling me of your personal experiences with Andrew Watson."

"Very well."

McGyver folded his hands together and fixed his eyes on a spot just over my head.

"He was a very private man…he came here a few times to do business errands; I do not know what specifically…but there is no place to accomplish such things in Rathclythe. When he had finished his errands he would often go to a pub and drink. He was a great drinker, poor man, but it seemed to be the only vice he possessed, for he was quite intelligent. On the occasions that I met him we would converse on a great many topics…often political…he was very much for the cause of reform…the betterment of the lower classes and so on."

McGyver's gaze sharpened and he smiled at the remembrance.

"He would have made a great reformist, Mr. Holmes, had he the means and ambition."

I nodded. "What of his appearance? His mannerisms…describe him."

McGyver's gaze refocused and he gave me a curious look but continued. "He was tall, with brown hair, hazel eyes."

"Clean-shaven?"

"Yes…or at least he would have been if he was shaven. He was always a cleanly man but never tidy…his clothes were usually a mess. Oh, and he wore his hair longer than is usual."

I filed this away…forming a mental picture of the elder Watson brother in my mind.

"Where did he live in Rathclythe?"

"He had a small cottage just outside the village, I sold it per Dr. Watson's wishes…I can give you the address." He opened a drawer of his assistant's desk and began to rummage around in it.

"That would be most helpful. What of his possessions…the ones you sold?"

McGyver pulled out a small folder and opened it…"It is all in here, Mr. Holmes – he had some items of furniture, several cases of books which I sent to his brother, sparse clothing and other personal effects…"

He handed me the folder and I scanned the list of items, but there was nothing out of the ordinary among them.

McGyver went on without my prompting, a fact for which I was grateful – interrogation was much more suited to my brother's intense personality, not mine.

"He was not very well known in Rathclythe, though he had lived there for several years…he worked at the local mill which belongs to one Mr. Wilkins. The rest of his time he spent at home or at the local pub…called the 'Ship and Anchor' I believe – he had several friends there; drinking partners, and a few fellow workers from the mill. He was especially close to a Mr. Clyde who works as a salesman…Rathclythe is on his usual route."

"Good." I murmured, looking over the list. "This is very good indeed, Mr. McGyver…you have been most helpful. With your permission, I shall take this with me and have it returned to you when this investigation is concluded."

Flushing at my compliment, the barrister stood as I did so, shaking my hand a second time.

I had already turned back to the door when his voice stopped me.

"I beg your pardon, sir…would you mind if I asked you a question?"

I closed my eyes and took a silent bracing breath…surely he could not think it…Sherlock was not that well known.

"You are not - _Sherlock_ Holmes by any chance?"

Perhaps the Doctor's stories had had a greater impact on the world than I had first surmised.

I entered the rooms we had rented only half of an hour later and opening the door quietly I found a scene that shall be forever imprinted on my mind.

Sherlock and the Doctor had not heard me enter and so were still positioned in ignorance of my presence.

My brother was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, the table was covered in papers that were covered in jotted numbers and diagrams…even several maps were stretched across it, the ones of Scotland that my brother had brought and a map of the world that must have been purchased only today. They were also covered in my brother's illegible handwriting.

Dr. Watson lay stretched upon the sofa…a glass of brandy in one hand and a contented smile upon his face, watching Sherlock with amusement. My brother's face was set in a concentrated frown, his brows knitted, an unlit pipe dangling between his teeth.

"Holmes." Watson remonstrated, his head turning to follow my brother's rapid pace, "You will wear a track in the carpet."

Sherlock sighed. "It is infuriating Watson – I have tried every cipher and code I know. Even your suggestion that they might be coordinates…"

Watson sighed and tipped his glass, gazing at it in reflection. "I really thought that would be it…"

"Until we ended up in the Arctic Ocean…"

"And the Grimpen Mire!"

"Your brother must have been a very puzzling man."

The Doctor laughed.

"He was a writer, Holmes." He declared with the finality of a grand jury declaring a man to be 'guilty'.

Sherlock snorted at this and dropped into a chair beside the sofa with a sigh. For the first time he noticed his neglected pipe, took it out of his mouth with a curious frown and moved to light it.

This was far too much for me and I could not suppress a laugh which rang through the room, ultimately spoiling the endearing scene.

Sherlock's head jerked around as it always did with the speed and agility of a hound, the Doctor jumped a little and grimaced, making me feel no small amount of guilt…but he smiled as he saw who it was.

My brother scowled at me, obviously embarrassed at being caught unawares in such a comfortable and familiar attitude.

"Well, Mycroft, what have you found?" he snapped without preamble.

"A great deal more than you it seems. Really, Sherlock, have you kept the poor Doctor at this all evening…he was supposed to be resting."

Watson's lips twitched. "Holmes thinks better with a sounding board."

His statement appeared to be perfectly serious, and I was again surprised.

I walked over to examine the papers on the table, shedding my coat as I did so. "You have been quite busy it seems."

Sherlock snorted again. "Yes, my dear _older_ brother, we have been good little boys all afternoon and attended to our studies."

I returned my brother's scowl as Watson laughed outright than coughed and settled back, purposefully calming his breathing.

"Never mind, Sherlock," I said, "The key to those numbers has eluded me as well…but I have managed to find a good deal on Andrew Watson. What do you say we order some dinner and I tell you all about it."

My brother and the Doctor exchanged a long look. Sherlock smiled and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head.

"That's three quid you owe me, Watson."

The Doctor sighed and ruefully sipped his port again.

"I beg your pardon!" I said, not certain whether to be offended at being the subject of a bet, or pleased that they were both in such good spirits.

The Doctor decided for me, rising with a smile that was so warm and genuine I found that I could not be offended.

"That is an excellent idea, Mycroft. We need to get your brother's mind off this track or he will lose himself in it…and I am rather famished."

I scoffed and turned to Sherlock who had also risen to his feet and was now sweeping the papers on the table carelessly to the floor to make room for the oncoming meal.

"Didn't you even feed him, Sherlock?"

My brother raised his eyebrows at me and said nothing.

I sighed. "Never mind, Doctor. Sherlock may starve himself but we can still eat without him."

Watson nodded and seated himself beside Holmes at the now clear table…he sat rather heavily and I could see that he was far more tired than he let on.

"I shall order dinner and then you, my dear Doctor, will go to bed."

I turned and left them chatting in the room, reveling in the ease and warmth of friendship that surrounded them.

Never had I seen Sherlock so happy then when engaged on a case with his dearest friend…and that made me happier still.

TBC…


	17. He Is Thy Brother

"If thy brother wrongs thee, remember not so much his wrong-doing, but more than ever that he is thy brother." –Epictetus

Chapter 17: "He Is Thy Brother"

_**Watson:**_

When I opened my eyes, a cheerful ray of bright sunlight was slanting its way through the window of the bedroom to cast dancing shadows on the walls and floor. I lay there for a moment, my mind processing what had happened the day and night before, remembering all of Mycroft's information from the solicitor I had mentioned.

Then I sat up in bed to see Sherlock Holmes fastening his collar at the bureau against the wall.

He saw that I was awake by the dresser mirror and nodded to me in its reflection.

"Were you able to get any sleep the rest of the night, Watson?"

His words puzzled me, but then I remembered – I had had another dream, not quite a nightmare but a disturbing dream nonetheless, and I had woken up with a sharp terrified gasp in a pitch-black room.

I had turned over on my side and half-buried my face in my pillow, clutching it as something tangible to hold on to, trying desperately to forget the frightening images and calm myself enough to go back to sleep – when I had felt a hand on my shaking shoulder.

_"It was only a dream, Watson. Go back to sleep. I shall not leave until you do,"_ he had gently reassured me. At the time I wondered what Holmes was even doing in my bedroom, but at that moment I did not care – I was simply glad to not be alone with my thoughts in the dark room.

And a few minutes later, I had indeed gone back to sleep, this time without any disturbing visions of my brother or of Holmes.

I now glanced at the other bed in the room – the covers had been turned down and mussed.

"You slept in here, instead of in your brother's room."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Not one of your more staggering deductions, my dear chap," he teased me gently, wrestling with his tie.

I smiled, genuinely, and he glanced at me in the mirror.

"I swore on the train, Watson, that I should not leave you to face the demons of your past alone," he went on in a more serious tone, "and besides –"

"Yes?"

"Besides, Mycroft snores like a horse, always has," he snorted, grabbing his jacket from the bed and shrugging into it.

At that, I laughed aloud, noticing with a glimmer of happiness that the pain in my chest was very slightly less when I did so than it had been previously.

Holmes grinned at me and opened the door of the sitting room.

"If you are wanting any breakfast, Watson, I would suggest you finish your toilet quickly – Mycroft has been at it for a good quarter of an hour, and it is rapidly disappearing!" he shot over his shoulder as he entered the sitting room.

I heard some indignant reply from older brother before the door shut behind him and chuckled again as I got out of the bed and began to dress.

It was not easy, but doable, to fasten the buttons on my clothing with my wrapped hand in a loose sling – but my stiff collar and tie were proving to be impossible, and I was becoming thoroughly frustrated and embarrassed by the time Sherlock Holmes poked his head back through the doorway and asked if I needed help with anything.

My face flushed bright red with deep mortification; and, seeing it, he shut the door behind him and walked over to me.

"My dear chap, there is nothing to be embarrassed about," he said gently, buttoning the offending collar and starting on the tie.

"Confound it, Holmes, I feel so dreadfully useless!" I exclaimed ashamedly.

"That, my dear Watson, is one thing that you will _never_ be. There," he said, helping me on with my jacket and readjusting the sling on my right arm afterwards. "Now we really had better hurry, for my brother believes that anything left on the table after ten minutes becomes his personal property!"

I grinned at his words as he opened the door and we entered the room. Mycroft Holmes was indeed seated at the table, eagerly devouring what little remained of a fine breakfast.

"Brother mine, might we at least trouble you for some toast?" the younger brother asked in annoyance, seating himself.

"Really, Sherlock. I thought you did not even _like_ to eat while engaged on a case," the elder replied, his eyes twinkling knowingly at me.

Sherlock snorted and poured us both some coffee while Mycroft started to pass me the breakfast dishes.

At my embarrassed face, he instantly realized the _faux pas_ and handed them to his brother instead. There was no possible way I could have handled a heavy silver platter with my bad arm.

Holmes sent me a reassuring look as he put the food on my plate, and I sat back with a sigh. I should be very glad to have the full use of two arms again at a future date.

"Doctor, are you quite sure you are up to doing this today?" Mycroft asked me as I picked up my fork, a little awkwardly, with my left hand.

"Quite certain," I said firmly, surprised and not a little pleased that neither my voice nor my hand was shaking.

"Very well. We leave in a half hour, then. I have a guide from the police station that will be waiting with a trap outside at that time. We shall visit the scene of the murder on our way to Rathclythe."

"Really, Mycroft," Holmes snapped, seeing me wince at the words, but I then waved off his concern – this was simply another storm we would have to weather. And now I held no longer the fear that I would be forced to pilot the vessel all alone.

"My apologies, Doctor," Mycroft said uncomfortably.

"None are necessary, Mycroft. I do not want the two of you feeling as if you must tread lightly with me. Have no more thoughts upon the matter – I shall be fine," I said, trying to choke down a little of the food at least, knowing that it might be quite a while before we ate again.

Holmes's brows knitted, and his concerned look told me that he (as he always did) was going to completely disregard what I had said.

But I was rather amused to see that his elder brother had very neatly tricked Holmes into eating by making the food vanish rapildy – Holmes had reflexively taken and eaten the last of the items on the table just to spite his brother. Reverse psychology, indeed.

The thought brought another grin to my face, and we finished the meal with rapidity and made preparations to leave for the town of Rathclythe.

As Holmes was engaged in destroying the contents of his carpetbag searching for his cloth deerstalker, I took the opportunity to stand by the bedroom window and look out over the city of Edinburgh, glistening in the brilliant brightness of a clear morning sun.

One's spirits could not help but lift on such a perfectly beautiful day, and as I stood there, taking it all in, I heard Holmes come up beside me and look out as well on the scene below us.

"It is going to be quite a lovely day, Holmes," I remarked.

"_That_ sentiment is more like my romantic idealist," I heard him say from behind me, and I could tell by his voice that he was smiling fondly.

I turned to face him, and met his grin with one of my own.

"I am NOT a romantic idealist!" I protested, merely for the sake of the age-old argument between us.

His mouth twitched in an even wider smile – then his gaze grew softer, and more serious, as we started for the door.

"We really do not have to go, Watson," he said, "I can just send Mycroft."

"No, Holmes. I need to lay these ghosts to rest, and I shall not have either of you traipsing about the countryside solving my problems for me, without my at least going along for the ride," I replied, shutting the door behind us firmly, "besides, you two will be at each other's throats all day if you have no mediator!"

"Good man," my friend said, sending me a warm glance of pride and taking my elbow as we went down the steep stairs.

Mycroft was waiting rather impatiently for us in the open carriage outside and introduced us to an Inspector Tavish of the Edinburgh police.

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," the man said, his faint Scottish burr softening the consonants of his words, "and my condolences to you, Doctor. I was the one who handled the unfortunate death of your brother last winter."

The official was a middle-sized man with sandy colored hair and a small mustache, probably closer to Mycroft's age than mine – but I liked him at once for his open frankness and direct speech.

"Thank you, Inspector," I said simply, as Holmes helped me up into the carriage and clambered up beside me – Mycroft's bulk had taken possession of most of the other seat.

The policeman was up front driving the horse, and as we settled in, he clucked his tongue and the vehicle began to lurch along. I winced, not eager to be shaken up yet again by another means of transportation, but my discomfort was forgotten as the sights and sounds of that city assaulted my senses, and I looked about me with a deep sense of nostalgia.

Holmes was engaged in studying a map he had picked up at the hotel of the small town of Rathclythe and the surrounding area, occasionally scribbling some note to himself on it and muttering under his breath.

I saw Mycroft look at me quizzically, and I shrugged the shoulder that was not holding my sling. He smiled tolerantly and also gazed out at the scene before us.

We soon left the city outskirts, clattering along a cobbled road that eventually turned to a beaten-down path. The sun and fresh air were a perfectly glorious change from foggy London, and I was almost, _almost_ enjoying myself – when Holmes suddenly gave an exclamation and growled like an irritated hound.

"Holmes?"

"What have you discovered, Sherlock?"

"Just this, Mycroft. This map's legend says that the road we are now on to Rathclythe is a good eight miles. Granted, that is not an exorbitant walking distance, but – "

"But the night of the murder, there was a dreadful ice storm," I interjected before Mycroft could, "what in blazes was Andrew doing, trying to walk eight miles in it?"

"That in itself lends a suspicious aspect to the death," Holmes said, his grey eyes meeting mine, "even in an intoxicated state, surely he would not have been able to even get out onto the road in such a storm – surely _someone_ would have stopped him?"

"One would think so, Sherlock. But it would have been small difficulty to cart the drunken man out there and dump his inebriated body over the embankment."

"Mycroft! For heaven's sake!"

"It's all right, Holmes," I entreated him, though I too cringed at the elder Holmes's unfortunate choice of words, "he is correct – the dreadful storm would have made it near impossible for Andrew to make it even two miles without aid."

Holmes muttered something about a lack of tact and scowled at his older sibling, while the other apologized to me and then averted his gaze, staring morosely out at the lush, green scenery.

An ice storm and a murder were two things that no one save the three of us would have possibly been thinking about on such a gorgeous day.

My mind turned back to the facts that the solicitor McGyver had given us about my unhappy brother. I sincerely hoped that, before the day were through, we should have found enough clues either from the tavern he frequented or the people who knew him to give the two Holmeses a lead of some kind.

My rather despondent thoughts took another downward turn a few minutes later when the inspector reined in the horse and stopped the carriage.

"Whoa, girl. Whoa. This is the spot, gentlemen," the man said, jumping down from the seat.

Holmes patted my arm encouragingly and hopped nimbly down, striding over to the edge of the road. I followed more slowly, Mycroft remaining in the carriage to observe from a higher vantage point.

"You can see, there's a steep drop off the side of the road, there, gentlemen."

The road before us was long and winding, with a rocky landscape on the one side and that awful ravine on the other. A low railing stood on the steep side of the road to warn travelers of the danger.

"Wait a moment," I said, "has that railing been there long?"

"Long as I can remember, Doctor, but according to the reports from the case – I have them here – the railing had broken under the weight of the ice storm and was not up the night your brother fell," Tavish told me.

I walked over to where Holmes was peering over the edge, and looked down. The sheer drop was so straight for a good twenty or thirty feet that it made me dizzy to stare straight down at it, and my head started to swim.

Holmes grasped my good arm and tugged me back from the edge. I leaned heavily into him as the image of my poor brother falling down, down into that awful abyss amidst a crashing ice storm played over in my mind, and I shuddered.

"Watson! Are you all right?"

"Yes," I said unsteadily, though I did not feel it. Holmes's worried gaze went from me, to the low railing, then back to me again.

"That rail looks rather sturdy to me," said he, "I should not think that even an ice storm would have been able to knock it down in one night's time."

"You would na' think so, Mr. Holmes," the Scotchman agreed.

"Did that not strike you as suspicious at the time, Inspector?"

"Not really, Mr. Holmes – we had no reason to suspect foul play, for the man was known to have been heavily drinking – beggin' your pardon, Dr. Watson."

"Quite all right, Inspector," I said, my nerve calming down somewhat and my grip on Holmes's arm loosening. "Would you happen to remember what he was carrying at the time the – the body was recovered?"

"I do not, Doctor, but I did take the precaution of diggin' out the file from the station archives," the man said, pulling a folder from his coat pocket, "and all the details should be in there."

Holmes stepped forward and took the file from the inspector, and then turned to me.

"Ready to move on, Watson?" he asked quietly.

I took one last look over the edge of that ravine and swallowed hard.

"Ready, Holmes."

He flashed me another look of pride and gently pushed me back up into the carriage, careful of my battered ribcage. Within minutes we took off again toward the town of Rathclythe.

Holmes opened the folder and began to riffle through the papers. Upon discovering the one we wanted, he began to read it aloud to Mycroft and myself.

"Hmm. Body was dressed in grey tweed suit, white shirt, black tie – etc, etc. Carrying in his pockets – wait half a moment."

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked impatiently.

His eyes had suddenly narrowed as he looked at the paper in his hands.

"Sherlock, do not be so infuriating!"

" 'Items in his pockets: Two shillings sixpence, leather wallet with identification, one Havana cigar, small blank memo-book, dull pencil, box of matches, and large pocketknife.' "

"That is all?" Mycroft asked, his keen senses picking up on what was just now beginning to dawn in my mind.

"That is everything on his person when they found the body," Holmes repeated, looking at me.

"Then – the watch was not on him at the time," I whispered.

"It was not. When he went over that embankment, the watch was not on his person. And the solicitor stated that the watch was not in with his possessions at his dwelling place," Holmes went on.

"Then he must have – wait," I said, suddenly remembering. "The watch arrived with his personal effects a good fortnight before the rest of the things."

"Before?"

"Yes, a few personal papers and a couple family possessions – the watch was among them," I replied, "it was in an unmarked envelope, and I really was not in any mood to care about how it came to me so soon after his death. Why – "

"The only possible explanation there can be, Doctor," Mycroft said slowly, " is that your brother mailed you the items _before_ he met his death – he was sending the watch to you for safekeeping."

"Before he was murdered by the group that wants the watch," I said quietly, processing this new information.

"Exactly. He knew his time was running out, and so he got the vital evidence off his person, sending it to the only man he still trusted – you, Watson," Holmes said softly.

I sat there in the carriage, unmindful of the birds singing merrily around us as we traveled, trying to absorb that piece of shocking news, completely stunned by this new development.

Andrew Watson…_my brother_…had not forgotten me.

TBC…


	18. We Walk Through Ourselves

"Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers. But always meeting ourselves. " -_James Joyce_

Chapter 18: "We Walk Through Ourselves"

_**Holmes:**_

I watched Watson during the remainder of our journey to Rathclythe. He seemed quite stunned at this latest revelation into his brother's character. Stunned and pleased.

I had no doubt that Watson would find it in his heart to forgive his black sheep of a brother…so good-hearted and forgiving was he by nature.

I was rather grateful for Watson's distraction of thought, for the way to Rathclythe was by no means smooth and my friend was by no means a well man yet.

It did not last long, though, and in less than an hour or two, we found ourselves in the midst of the small town that nestled among the surrounding green hills…respectively hidden from view of the main road and the rather more modern city that stood nearby.

There were only a hundred buildings or so…all of varying shapes and sizes and states of disrepair. The isolation and the lack of modern establishments was such that for a moment I was strongly reminded of the Baskerville estate in Dartmoor, with its lonely tors where I had spent so many nights alone with the howling wind.

I shook off the feeling and alighted from the carriage, turning to make certain that Watson was able to descend without too much difficulty. He did, though he was evidently stiff and rather sore from the rough ride. But he stood on his own two feet without a stumble or a murmur of complaint.

Mycroft remained in his seat and was speaking quietly with the policeman, and after a moment he turned to me.

"The tavern that Andrew Watson frequented is just down the road Sherlock…perhaps you and the Doctor would investigate there while Inspector Tavish and I examine the house where he lived. Heaven knows you are far more apt to such things than I."

I smiled. Mycroft disliked dealing with people even more than he disliked field work. It was a wonder he had come on this trip with Watson and myself at all

"Very well, Mycroft…the house is only a mile or two north is it not?"

"Yes…we'll meet you here this evening. And Sherlock?"

I stopped at my brother's words and turned back to face him.

"Make sure you both eat something. The good Doctor does not have your stamina when he is in the best of health, let alone at this moment."

I snorted, "Goodbye Mycroft…watch yourself."

Mycroft smiled but his face was sober. "I am more worried about the two of you."

"We'll be all right," Watson said behind me…I hoped that I would be able to fulfill such confidence.

"Right." Mycroft said, closing the door to the carriage and nodding to Tavish who chucked the reins again, putting the horse in motion, and leaving Watson and I to make our way to the tavern.

The 'Ship and Anchor' was nothing new or original…one has only to picture a typical country drinking establishment and he will know exactly what it looked like.

Watson and I weaved our way through the tables and seated ourselves in an inauspicious corner, ordered lunch and were soon making our way through a hearty country meal…or rather Watson was attempting to make his way through it...He had not had a decent appetite since the attack, and I had little interest in food at all. I was observing the occupants of the room.

Watson of course, noticed my lack of appetite and looked at me curiously…but I knew that out of habit he would not interrupt, for he knew how important concentration and solitude where to me during our investigations.

Several men stood at the bar itself, already drinking though it was only three-o-clock in the evening. These were no doubt the men that Andrew Watson had drunk with…they wore rough, worn, workman's clothing, and their eyes bore the bloodshot veins of avid alcoholics. They were the ones I must question.

But how...

No matter the method, I could not involve Watson, for the anarchists masquerading under the Gersauch sept would be on the alert for any mention of Andrew. Strangers from out of town and asking direct questions would make a target of themselves.

"Stay here Watson," I said, rising to my feet.

My friend shot me a fearful look.

I could have kicked myself for my lack of tact. "I am not leaving, old fellow…I just need to ask some questions."

"Holmes."

"I won't be a minute."

Watson sighed and placed his head wearily in his hand. He knew exactly what I intended to do. "Be careful, Holmes."

I patted his shoulder and slid around the table to approach the group. They parted with annoyed grunts as pushed between them so I could reach the bar…there leaning across the worn wood was the barkeep…a stout man with a receding hair and a mass that could rival that of Mycroft himself.

Adopting a snobbish air and an overly cultured accent I addressed him directly.

"I am looking for Andrew Watson."

I could sense more than see half a dozen heads turn toward me. The barkeep scowled and growled out in a low burr.

"An' who would you be?"

I smiled in what I hoped was an exceedingly annoying and condescending manner. Let them think me a fop of no consequence.

"My name is Ashcroft. I was told that Mr. Watson often spends his afternoons here."

One of the men beside me, a tall fellow with red hair and swaying as though he had already had one drink too many, slurred. "Oh, aye…Andy came here every day din't 'e lads?...before he took that fall."

One of his fellows glared at him.

"Fall?" I asked, feigning puzzlement.

The barkeep growled. "What business did you have with Mr. Watson?"

"He owed me money…thirty pounds…do any of you know where I could find him if he is not here?"

The red-haired drunk laughed and said. "Yeh we can tell you where to find him…he's got a new residence, ain't 'e lads?"

The barkeep scowled at him and turned to me. "Andrew Watson died a year past…he's buried in the local yard…"

I let my face fall comically. "Oh dear…where exactly?"

"What do you care?" a third fellow asked…"You're just a creditor…didn't know a thing about him."

"Did you know him?" I turned to face the fellow, and his blond, bushy eyebrows lowered.

"Aye, he was a friend, worked with me at the mill…"

"You were his friend, then?"

"I don't know if you would say that but I respected him. He was a good worker…and smart too…he could have done things if he hadn't..."

"This gentleman's not interested in what you got to say, Carter." The red-haired man slurred again leaning forward between our faces and giving off a very foul smell of beer and unwashed skin.

He was scowling as well, and my instincts rose in warning; most of the men around me were scowling, and held their drinks rather tightly…only 'Carter' looked more sad than menacing…perhaps this had not been the smartest move.

"The kirkyard is to the south." The barkeep said with finality. "His grave is on the left if you want to make sure yourself."

I nodded and sighed. "I think I will…stupid fool. Waste of a good thirty pounds."

Carter shot me a dirty look but I was already leaving the group.

Across the room Watson was watching me, tensed, his eyes concerned. I discreetly motioned him to follow me and left the bar, waiting at the entrance where I could still see him clearly.

Watson was not a fool and despite his fear still knew how to leave a room unnoticed. A few minutes later he had joined me.

"Holmes." He said, his expression belying his unease. "What did you say to them?"

"I asked them about your brother." I readjusted my coat which had been rumpled from the activity at the bar.

"Did you find out anything?"

I frowned. "They did not reveal much…only one of them seemed to sincerely care about your brother. He might be able to tell us something if we can find him alone later…the only new information I received were directions to your brother's grave."

Watson's face turned to wood…and I wanted to kick myself again for my lack of tact.

"His grave."

I gave him a long, searching look and after he spoke I said slowly. "It is just south of here old fellow…a short walk…I thought that maybe - "

He met my look and nodded staunchly. "Yes, Holmes…I should like to see it."

I tried to smile, but I was certain that the result must be rather pitiful.

"We have time before Mycroft and Tavish return…I thought you might prefer to see it in private."

He nodded once more, giving me a grateful look. "Yes…but…"

He hesitated and I answered his unspoken question. "I will come of course…neither of us should go anywhere alone until this business is over."

He smiled, rather grimly I thought and asked, "Which way, Holmes?'

"The south." I said quietly, gesturing and he began in that direction…I not a step behind.

TBC…


	19. We Are But Two

_We are but two – the others sleep_

_Through death's untroubled night;_

_We are but two – O let us keep_

_The link that binds us bright._

_(Charles Sprague, 'The Brothers')_

_"We Are but Two"_

_**Holmes:**_

As we walked through the sunlit streets of that little town, I kept a sharp eye on Watson – I was indeed very, very worried about his condition, both physically and emotionally.

The dark circles under his eyes seemed to increase no matter how much (or how little) sleep he seemed to get, and although he was becoming quite proficient at hiding his suffering from me, I had caught him several times with an expression of intense pain on his features as he suffered in his stoic silence.

I had learnt more about the man in the last week than I had in the entire seven years we had shared lodgings, and the fact worried me not a little.

Watson was and always had been my rock, my anchor – when I was in depression, when I was impatient, discouraged, moody; even when I tormented his sensitive soul unmercifully with my usage of cocaine and my irritating habits – he never deserted me, he was always there. And I knew he always would be; that was simply a given fact.

Now, he desperately needed the same support from me, and I was doing a horrible job of returning his care for me in years past. I had no idea what to do to help him, other than finding the men who were after him and making sure Andrew's murder was avenged.

I could give us physical closure – but I had absolutely not the faintest idea how to aid him in bringing about emotional closure to this sordid affair.

And the fact worried me more and more as the hours went by.

We had walked out of the main part of the town in silence, the sunny afternoon cheer of the nature around us seeming to mock the gravity of the errand upon which we were embarking. I glanced once more at Watson, and was concerned to see his breath coming rather too rapidly, and he was looking perfectly dreadful.

"Watson, would you like to stop for a while?"

"No," he said breathlessly, "I – I want to do this, Holmes, before – before I lose my nerve."

I nodded in understanding, but Watson averted his gaze – why he was ashamed of his fear of being alone was beyond my comprehension. All men fear loneliness at some point, and this was no ordinary circumstance.

A lesser man would have already crumbled into a nervous breakdown; and I was once again in mind of how extraordinary my friend really was.

Without thinking about it, going with my instincts instead of my brain for once, I slipped my arm through his as we walked, and he gave me a grateful look.

I also slowed down the pace slightly, for I could tell in his eyes that he was in a good deal of pain. He had firmly refused any more morphine from the time we had got on the train, much to my dismay.

We walked for a good twenty minutes along the path that had been pointed out to us, the streets of the city giving place to more rural scenes; green fields were evident in the distance and the houses becoming fewer and fewer.

Once I heard him sigh softly, staring morosely at the road in front of us, and I wondered what in the world I was going to do when we got there – would he want me with him? Would he want to be alone?

I had one surprise for him that he was yet unaware of, but it would not do much by way of physical comfort. I grew increasingly more uneasy the closer we got to the small country cemetery – this was out of my league. Completely, wholly out of my depth – I had no clue what to do.

We finally reached the wrought-iron gate of the old cemetery, seeing that it was standing open. I remembered the barkeep saying that the newer graves were on the left side, and Andrew's probably was among them.

Despite the warm sun, I could feel Watson shiver a little beside me, and I tightened my grip on his arm, looking at him with concern.

"Are you going to be all right, old chap?" I asked softly.

He swallowed hard, then nodded at me, and started to enter.

I was very, very proud of my dear Watson at that moment, more so than ever before.

It was a peaceful place, shaded by large, spreading oaks that probably were older than any of the graves within. The sun shone down through the trees, casting beams of light dancing across green grass and grey stone, dotted occasionally with a small dash of color from flowers placed upon the headstones by grieving relatives.

We were the only ones in the entire place, for which I was grateful – I was unsure as to how Watson would react to the grave hitting him as a hard realization of the reality of the thing.

We found the small stone and simple wooden cross at the end of one of the rows of graves.

And I stood there with my arm through his and read the short inscription on the stone, half-covered by long grass.

_Andrew Ivan Watson, age 34 years_

_1852-1887_

And that was all – there had been no one to object otherwise when the poor fellow was buried.

I felt Watson shaking as he too read the terse, almost impersonal inscription on the small grey stone, and again I felt completely helpless – what was he going to do? How was he going to react?

I took my arm from his, bent down, and cleared away the long grass that had grown up around the stone and the small white cross – at least it could be easily seen now.

"Thank you," I heard him whisper, and I nodded uncertainly and then withdrew several feet away to allow him time alone.

He did not ask me to stay, and I knew then that I had done the right thing.

But when I saw my dearest friend drop to his knees on the ground in front of the stone, an physical pain shot through my heart at my own helplessness, and my own eyes filled with tears even as I knew Watson's must have been.

His were tears of grief – mine of frustration and hurting for the man I had come to look upon as the most important person in the world to me. As he touched the white cross with a shaking finger, I could take it no longer and averted my gaze, drawing a long shuddering breath, praying for guidance.

What could I do? How could I make things better? I, Sherlock Holmes, the foremost investigator of our generation – could do nothing.

I looked up sharply when I saw Watson stagger to his feet, stumble over to the nearest great oak tree, and put his one good arm upon its giant trunk and his face upon his arm as he had done on the train – only this time I could tell by the violent shaking of his shoulders that he was crying bitterly.

And at once I realized there was something I could do.

I could give him more support than that confounded tree could, at least.

In three long strides I was standing beside him, my hand on his heaving shoulders. And before I could even say anything, he turned round with a such grief-stricken countenance that it shot a pang through my heart, and then he clung to me in a vise-like grip, sobbing like nothing I had ever before heard.

No, not _never_ before.

I had once heard sounds like that. And – and they had come from me.

It had been the night of my parents' double funeral – ten long years ago. I had woken up with a violent nightmare, screaming in my darkened bedroom as the horrid images of my parents drowning replayed over and over in my overactive imagination.

There had been a slamming thud as my older brother burst frantically into the room – he had heard my petrified cries from down the hall.

And as a very, so very young adult, I had clung to him and cried, as Watson was weeping now, for what seemed like hours. And Mycroft had sat there on my bed and allowed me to – not saying a word, just giving me something to hold on to.

And that had helped, more than he yet knew.

Now – now it was my turn to help.

Hesitantly at first, then more firmly as the awkwardness wore off – I had not done this sort of thing in many years – I put my arms firmly around my friend's trembling form and said nothing, just standing there, allowing the flood of emotions to run its course.

It must have been a good fifteen minutes before he quieted – but that was a good thing, for I knew he needed to have release at last.

Only once had I seen him weep – that first night we found out the news in Baker Street. Twice I had caught him when he thought no one was watching with tears in his eyes, but he had never just let down all the barriers and had it out with his grief. And those times I had not known what to do.

Now I knew, for the pain of his anguish had filtered through a tiny crack in my armor, piercing the shields I had so carefully constructed around my own early grief, and that chink was widening by the moment as feelings I had not felt in years began slowly sifting to the front of my mind.

His violent sobs were now subsiding, and suddenly his breath caught in his throat and he jerked back, his already flushed face darkening with high embarrassment.

"I – I'm sorry, Holmes – I'm – behaving – like a – like a fool," he gasped, trying to push back from me.

He was ashamed of grieving? Or did he think that I had been an unwilling part in sharing it? Had I really seemed so cold and distant in the past, that he thought I would _mind_ giving him a shoulder to cry on?

It was my turn to be deeply ashamed.

"Oh, my dear fellow," I gasped, not knowing what else to say, "I – I am so sorry!"

At that, his tears started afresh, and I was terrified – I had said the wrong thing! Why could I not do anything correctly?

Watson's grip on my jacket was a stranglehold, and I could do nothing but stand there helplessly, for everything I could think of to say was a mere empty platitude that would not help in the least.

Until I remembered again that horrid night ten years ago when Mycroft had done his best, awkward though it was, to try and calm me. I swallowed hard.

"Watson. It – it'll be all right. I'm right here," I said, praying it was the right thing to say, for it was what had helped me, "I'm right here, old chap."

His stiff body relaxed very slightly, though the tears were still forthcoming, and I hoped desperately that it had been the right thing to say – I most certainly had to be the worst comforter on the face of the planet.

But a few moments later, he calmed once more, and looked up at me, trying his best to stammer a thank-you. My dear Watson, courteous to the last.

But a sudden chill ran over me when he nearly doubled over, clutching at his ribs with a strangled cry of pain – the violence of his grief must have undone any healing that had taken place in these last few days.

I quickly held onto him and we sat heavily on the ground, where I perceived that his breathing, already labored from such deep crying, was becoming terrifyingly shallow as he tried to deal with the intense pain.

"Watson, listen to me!" I said. My voice was shaking with fright or emotion, I did not care which. "You have to breathe, Watson. Deeply and slowly. Do you hear me?"

He nodded, gasping as a fresh wave of pain hit him. It took me a good five minutes to get him to finally take a deep shuddering breath, and he went limp against the trunk of that spreading tree we were seated under, leaning slightly back into my shoulder.

His eyes were closed, and he was obviously concentrating on getting a grip on his runaway emotions. I was shaking as badly as he now, so terribly had he frightened me.

"It's all right, Watson. Just rest for a while," I said quietly, watching as his breathing slowly stopped hitching in his throat and the intense pain evident on his face started to fade slightly.

My arm never moved from where it was still tightly wrapped around his trembling shoulders, and for several moments my poor friend's heavy shuddering breaths were the only sound I could hear, other than the twittering of those confounded birds above us – seeming to mock the heart-wrenching drama taking place below them.

After a moment, I realized that his breathing had evened out, that he was no longer shaking, and – and he had fallen asleep with his head back against the tree trunk. I sighed with relief. Thank God – he would get a little respite from the pain for a while at least.

While I used the opportunity in trying to get a grip on the demons of my own past. They had served their purpose in giving me guidance. Now it was time to shut them away once more, deeply in the furthest recesses of my formidable mind.

_**Watson:**_

I awoke with a start, and the first thing I realized was that my head seemed dreadfully thick and stuffy – then I remembered the amount of weeping I had done. Dear heavens, I had no idea where it had all come from – it was as if a dam had burst within my mind, spilling out everything I had been feeling for the last I did not know how long.

The second realization was that I was leaning back against a tree trunk and Holmes was sitting next to me, his arm round my shoulders. Then as he looked at me, seeing I was awake, I realized with extreme embarrassment that I had been pinning his arm to that tree while I slept.

"I – I am sorry," I stammered, my voice hoarse from the amount of crying I had done.

He chuckled.

"You were going to get ten more minutes, old chap, and then I was going to have to take my arm back – I cannot feel my fingers!"

His gentle teasing as he flexed the cramped muscles was very soothing to my fractured nerves, and I managed a small, shaking smile.

"Do you feel any better now, Watson?" he asked softly.

I nodded, taking another shaking breath – how had I even fallen asleep?

Then I remembered the horrible black cloud of grief that had completely taken control of my senses – I could not even remember what all I had done in those awful throes of that most awful feeling.

At my troubled gaze, Holmes's grey eyes softened, and he reassured me that all was well, and that I should feel much better now that I had finally, finally, allowed myself the outlet for the emotions I had been harboring for over a year now.

I was astounded, pleasantly shocked, by how well he understood my needs – as I have said, emotional demonstrations were not something he indulged in, and this was an extremely rare occurrence. But, then, this affair was an extreme circumstance.

I closed my eyes and drew another shuddering breath. Then, opening them, I saw that Holmes was looking once more at my brother's watch – he had been occupying his mind while I had a much-deserved nap. He handed the item back to me with a small sigh.

"The significance still eludes me, Watson. I am so sorry."

I accepted the watch and replaced it in my pocket, assuring him there was no need for apologies.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear fellow."

"I – I – well, thank you," I whispered, not daring to meet his eyes as my voice shook once again.

"I told you, Watson. Together, we _shall_ endure the storm. I am glad you allowed me to come along with you, old fellow, I should have been heartbroken if you had tried to face it alone," he said softly.

I did not trust my voice to words, and so I nodded mutely.

"I – I brought something, Watson, that – that I thought you might like to have," he said a moment later, his voice uncertain and awkward.

I turned to look at him, and he was fidgeting nervously.

"Holmes?"

"Well," he swallowed – he was indeed nervous – and then he pulled a rolled-up length of ribbon from his pocket and handed it to me with a hand that was scarce steadier than my own.

I looked from it back to him quizzically.

"I – or rather Mycroft, by my request – took the liberty of researching your family's Scottish heritage, Watson," he said, running a finger around his collar uncomfortably, "and – and I found what the Watson Tartan looked like. So, I had Mycroft running all over Edinburgh last night after you went to bed to find someone who would carry the plaid in stock or be able to make it in a matter of hours."

I stared at him, and then looked back down to the soft plaid ribbon I held in my hand.

"I – I knew you at some point would be wanting to pay your last respects, Watson, and I – I didn't know if – if you wished flowers or what-not, so I decided on the simple route." He was fidgeting nervously, eyeing me for my reaction.

"Simple, to Sherlock Holmes perhaps," I whispered, my eyes filling with tears once more as I gazed down at the plaid ribbon in my hands, "but to anyone else, priceless. Holmes, I –" I stopped as my voice shook once again, and his brow furrowed with deep concern.

I managed to swallow down the lump in my throat and smile at him, and he returned the gesture warmly, standing to his feet and offering me his hand.

We stood together for a moment, and then I walked over to the stone and cross once more. Kneeling down, I tied the Tartan ribbon in a neat square knot around the white cross, and the warm breeze picked up the two ends of the ribbon and sent them fluttering in the breeze like a flag saluting.

Above me, I heard Holmes's quiet voice, reciting a poem I had heard in grammar school but not since then.

_We are but two – the others sleep_

_Through death's untroubled night;_

_We are but two – O let us keep_

_The link that binds us bright._

_Heart leaps to heart – the sacred flood_

_That warms us is the same;_

_That good old man – his honest blood_

_Alike we fondly claim._

_We in one mother's arms were locked_

_Long be her love repaid;_

_In the same cradle we were rocked –_

_Round the same hearth we played._

_Our boyish sports were all the same_

_Each little joy and woe;_

_Let manhood keep alive the flame_

_Lit up so long ago._

_We are but two – be that the band_

_To hold us till we die;_

_Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,_

_Till side by side we lie._

I stood slowly and stiffly as he finished the last words – I had not heard that poem in years, and I was very much surprised that Holmes had even ever heard of it.

But as always, he knew somehow exactly what I needed to hear.

And as we stood there, he slipped his arm once more through mine, and we held a moment of silence for Andrew, watching as the ends of the ribbon flung the colors of my heritage to the warm autumn wind.

And the black cloud that had been hanging over me had turned with Holmes's help into an odd sense of calm, and I knew now that I could, I really could, weather this storm. And with the help of such a man as Sherlock Holmes, it was nowhere near as daunting a task as it would have been alone.

And as we finally turned to leave, I looked back once more on the small white cross with its proud banner, and I knew my brother would have been pleased.

Holmes's grip tightened protectively on my arm, and I at last felt peace about leaving the place – knowing that now I had at last laid a ghost to rest, for good this time.


	20. Trampling a Dozen Others

"You can only help one of your luckless brothers by trampling down a dozen others." - Bertolt Brecht

Chapter 20: "Trampling Down a Dozen"

_**Watson:**_

I was somewhat alarmed at the toll my violent grieving had taken on my damaged ribs. From my medical training, it was evident to me that what little healing they had undergone over the past few days had just undone.

It was disheartening and painful…but thankfully not too dangerous as they had not healed much to begin with. Time and rest would set right the damage that had been done today.

Feeling rather drained but somehow lighter after the graveyard, I was able to keep pace with Holmes as we plodded back into to the town and soon found ourselves on the street where the 'Ship and Anchor' was.

I sighed…the carriage and Mycroft were not there yet…we should have to wait for them.

Holmes's arm suddenly tightened in mine and I heard him hiss softly between his teeth.

"Holmes?" I asked, knowing that his keen senses must have discerned something that mine had not.

I was right. Holmes's head was turned like that of a pointer in the direction from whence we had come. At some stealthy sound that was too low for my ears his head whipped round to peer at the darkness just to the left of us.

He swore softly. "I had hoped they would not come after us so soon. It is my fault entirely for being so sloth - I did not allow for the darkness."

"You cannot control the procession of night and day, Holmes. Are they the ruffians you confronted in the pub?"

"Some of them, yes…I don't think they will let us get very far. Even in the pub they could conceal their revolvers, unless…"

This last word was spoken eagerly. He had struck upon some idea.

"What, Holmes?"

My friend began to walk swiftly towards the pub, pulling me with him, sticking to the shadows.

"Inside, Watson, quickly - stay close to me no matter what happens…and for heaven's sake try to keep out of the middle of things. You are in no fit state for fisticuffs and I can more than take care of myself."

"Fight? You're not making sense, Holmes."

"Promise me, Watson."

"Very well, but…"

There was no more time for objections…our pursuers were now visible even to me.

Just in time, we reached the entrance of the pub and Holmes practically threw me inside, following himself after. He led me through the crowd to the very front, up to the bar itself…than pressed me against it standing in front of it.

Than in the voice of a drunken ruffian Sherlock Holmes said words that I would never in a million years have expected to hear cross his lips.

"JOHN LACHLAN! YOU'VE BEEN MAKING ADVANCES TO MY WIFE!"

The poor, rather thin fellow he addressed was much smaller than Holmes…and was talking to a group of very capable-looking friends. He turned to look at Holmes in puzzlement and confusion.

"What?"

Several heads in the pub, including that of the barkeep, had turned in my friend's direction. The men who had been following us appeared at the door, four of them, including the redhead Holmes had been talking to earlier…looking far more sober than he had this afternoon.

Holmes spoke again. "DON'T PLAY INNOCENT WITH ME, LACHLAN! YOU CAN'T BEHAVE THAT WAY AND THINK THAT I'LL LET IT PASS - YOU FILTHY SWINE!"

The chap now looked very alarmed and his friends muttered and shifted, looking angry. Most of the patrons were now looking at my friend.

Holmes's red face and gritted teeth made him look very convincing and rather menacing.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" his victim exclaimed.

"OH YOU DON'T, EH?" Holmes spat not an inch from the poor man's face.

Then he caught hold of the man and delivered a hard blow to his face, sending him sprawling.

The man's friends shouted in outrage, one going so far as to swing at Holmes, who promptly ducked. The blow instead landed on a very drunk and very angry looking fellow with an unkempt black beard.

He growled at Holmes's attacker, shaking off the blow, and landed one of his own.

Holmes punched a curious onlooker at random and turned over a table - sending several drinks flying in the process, causing more outcries and a few more blows.

Then the tavern exploded.

The din became a deafening roar; men surged in waves to their feet, several fistfights broke out, and many took the opportunity to help themselves to free liquor.

Amidst the chaos I lost sight of both Holmes and the men who had been tailing us, and I helplessly pressed myself against the bar trying to keep clear of the mass of humanity.

Than an unexpected blow landed on the side of my face and I was propelled directly into the center of it.

I struggled against the press of bodies in vain, lost in the sea of flailing fists and red faces. I gave up trying to navigate my way out and instead wrapped my arms around my middle, trying to protect my ribs.

A hand shot out of nowhere and gripped my arm pulling me towards an overturned table.

I struggled, thinking it to be one of our pursuers but was surprised to see the face of my friend instead, already bruised and shining with perspiration, his teeth bared in a grin and his eyes alight with the fervor that physical activity of this sort always gave him.

"Stay down, Watson!" he shouted above the din and guided me to crouch behind the overturned table, which I suddenly realized he had chosen as a point of defense, pushing it against the wall.

No sooner had he pushed me down than another man came at him, fists raised. Holmes took him out with a left hook and sent him falling back into the writhing tangle.

His second assailant was larger and beefier and Holmes's blows seemed only to infuriate him. He hit my friend full in the face and split his lip.

Holmes staggered against the table, than came back up with surprising agility and landed a fantastic kick on the fellow's ribcage, driving the air out of his lungs.

But no sooner had this man been pushed back than another came and then another…the mere proportions of the fight Holmes had started were frightening.

Furniture and bottles began to splinter as the energy of the room grew. I could not see the barkeep and could only assume he had either gone for help or ducked out of the way.

Holmes straightened again after disabling what must have been his twentieth attacker, when he froze. I turned my face in the direction of his gaze and felt the breath leave my body, though my gasp was too quiet for even my ears.

The redhead stood pushing his way through the center of the room towards Holmes…and my friend had no time to vanish again.

Within a moment he was upon the detective, and dodged Holmes's first and second blows, taking the third on his shoulder and hitting Holmes a low blow in the knee.

I saw more than heard Holmes cry out and stumble, and the fellow leered and loomed over him.

I could stand aside and watch this no longer. My arm and my ribs were damaged but I managed a neat blow to his stomach with my left hand, just in the proximity of his kidney. He let out a thin shriek and curled over the hurt.

I assisted him with a booted foot along his way to the floor and then stepped over him quickly to Holmes' side.

My friend was already getting to his feet, and he gave me a grin.

"Well done, Watson!"

I smiled but had no time to respond when he yanked me out of the path of a patron who was streaming blood from a gash on his forehead.

There was a large crack and we turned to see a huddle of men collapse into the table just in front of us, crushing it and landing in an impossible pile on the floor. The fight was pressing in on us, driving us away from the defensive table Holmes had first commandeered.

My friend pushed me toward the fallen pile of men, forcing me to step over them into the temporarily clear space they had created, then he pressed me against the wall, keeping himself protectively in front of me.

By this time we had almost made a full circuit of the room and the fighting was slowly dying down as men staggered away to nurse bruises.

A man who was grinning as widely as my friend, and who was obviously enjoying the fight, plowed into Holmes and they exchanged blows for several moments before Holmes sent him back and turned to face his next assailant.

It was the fellow with the black beard, who no doubt recognizing my friend even in his drunken state landed a terrific blow on his face and taking hold of his shirt smashed him into the wall.

I moved to help but slipped on a puddle of spilled beer, I reached out impulsively and gripped the shirt of the nearest man bringing him crashing down beside me.

The fellow growled and tried to get his hands around my throat.

An instant later he was pulled off by a blond, red-faced young man whom I recognized from Holmes's earlier encounter in the pub.

He looked at me and his eyes were wide. His brow furrowed and he reached down and pulled me to my feet, his eyes never leaving my face.

I turned away from him, stuttering my thanks, trying to find Holmes.

My assistant released me and turned in the direction of my pursuit, pulling the colossus off of Holmes, who now sported a fantastic black eye, and sending the raging man into the remaining combatants with a resounding kick.

Holmes looked to me anxiously and then spotted the young man…his eyes widened as well.

"Carter."

"You," the blond fellow said, pulling me and Holmes aside into the corner "Don't lie to me…you did know Andrew Watson - but not as a creditor…and you." He looked at me again. "You're his brother aren't you…he talked of you."

"What does that mean to you?" Holmes asked him, "what was Andrew to you?"

"A friend, we worked at the mill together. I admired him…if you're here about his death as I think you are you had better talk to the men who followed you in here…bad lot…he was always doing business with them, poor choice of friends for a brilliant fellow like him."

"You cared for him?" I asked, gasping for air and struggling to make my voice heard over the remaining ruckus.

"Aye." Carter said with another look at me, his blue eyes fixed on my face.

"Watson!" Holmes hissed pulling me away from him towards the door, I followed his gaze again and saw that the fight was again coming towards us.

"I think it's time we made our goodbyes." Holmes said, pushing me through the door and into the night air.

I stumbled slightly, reveling in the freedom of cool open air, and barged on accident straight into a large figure. I stepped back gasping my apologies.

"Doctor…what in heavens' name!"

Holmes staggered out of the pub after me, his clothes and hair disheveled, still bleeding from the split on his lip and a small cut on his brow, the bruise coloring his left temple.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gasped in disapproval, though the tone was tinged with worry.

Holmes' face colored and he sobered. "Ah…Mycroft. Finished then, are you?"

The press of the fight now surged through the door, and Tavish alighted from the carriage starting towards the door with a sigh, firing a shot in the air that made the fighters pause.

"I trust there is a good reason for this Mr. Holmes…" he called back over his shoulder. "Only I'm not sure I want to hear it!"

Seeing Mycroft's large face flush beet-red, I had the feeling that he did not want to know the real reason either. Younger brother had a good deal of explaining to do.

TBC…


	21. The Arms Fall

"If you wish to be brothers, let the arms fall from your hands. One cannot love while holding offensive arms." – Pope Paul VI

Chapter 21: "The Arms Fall"

_**Mycroft:**_

"Sherlock, of all the imbecilic, idiotic, -"

"Mycroft," the doctor said tiredly, slumping back into the seat of the carriage, "we had no other option – Holmes was staging the fight to keep us out of danger – we were being followed!"

I frowned – I could not argue with my brother's reason for starting a brawl in the tavern, but I was not at all happy about his drawing such focus to ourselves.

Sherlock was sitting across from me, glaring venomously out of two very annoyed grey eyes.

"I should think, brother, that that was good enough reason for drawing attention to ourselves," he snapped, "attention is better than receiving a bullet, is it not?"

"Or being pushed into a ravine," Watson whispered, staring moodily out at the darkening sky.

My anger dissipated at that, and I looked sharply at the two of them.

The doctor looked absolutely exhausted, mentally as well as physically, and I knew they had spent the afternoon at his brother's grave – that much Sherlock had told me. It could not have been a pleasant task, and I could tell by Watson's stiff movements that he was still in a great deal of pain.

And my brother looked no better – even after cleaning up slightly from his impromptu bar battle, he still sported a split lip a black eye and considerable bruises on his face and I was sure the rest of his body as well.

As I felt the anger leave my countenance, the carriage went over a rather rough bump in the road, violently jarring us all, and the Doctor gasped suddenly and his one good hand instinctively clutched at his side, breaking into a hoarse cough.

Before I could ask him if he was all right, Sherlock beat me to it. And it again amused me to see how much my brother had changed in the last several years – he had been an extremely self-centred child and teenager.

Now, as I watched him put a supportive arm around Watson's shoulders and glare at me as if daring me to comment on the fact, I could not repress a grin at his belligerent attitude – _that_ part of him had not changed in the least.

"What did you find out at Andrew's house, Mycroft?" the doctor asked, gingerly settling back in the seat beside my brother with a small sigh.

"Several points of interest, Doctor," I replied, starting to take out my notebook and then remembering it was too dark to read it – I should have to go on memory.

"For one thing, I ascertained that there was absolutely nothing left in the house that belonged to your brother. No attempts have been made to get into the house or buy anything inside it, either."

"Deduction being that the house has no connection with the anarchists using the Gersauch Tartan, brother mine. Staggering, Mycroft," my younger brother said, and in the approaching darkness I could not see if he were teasing or simply out of patience with my methodical story-telling.

When I heard a murmured remonstrance from the doctor, I was rather inclined toward the latter. And when he heaved a sigh and asked me more politely to continue, I nearly laughed aloud. Watson was invaluable sometimes.

"But I talked to the neighbors," I went on, "and found something very interesting."

"Do tell."

"Holmes, for heaven's sake."

Watson was indeed exhausted if he were losing patience with my brother – I sometimes thought the doctor had a never-ending supply of the virtue.

"The neighbors had lived there since before Andrew Watson bought the house until now. More than one of them told me that after Andrew moved into the place, they started seeing lights on the property at night."

"Lights?"

"Torches or lanterns – at all hours. And in varying places on the estate," I replied.

I wished rather for one of the lanterns now, for darkness had fallen and I did not particularly like the idea of driving through the countryside in pitch blackness.

"Meetings taking place," I heard Watson suggest in a quiet, tired voice.

"Very possibly," I agreed, a little nettled at Sherlock for twitting me about my deductions but not saying a word to the doctor about his.

"These midnight meetings happened on a fairly regular basis," I went on, "and sometimes were accompanied by voices on the wind, etc."

"Did the neighbors know who was involved? Did no one ever investigate?" Sherlock asked.

"No, Sherlock. This is a most private rural town. Each man minds his own affairs and no one else's."

"So all we know is that meetings were taking place on the property somewhere," my brother muttered, "at various hours of the night."

"There was no more to be learned there, Sherlock. Obviously, the meetings were probably clandestine liaisons of the anarchist group that is after Watson here."

Neither of the two across from me made a response, and I again wished for a lantern – how I despised talking to nothingness. And Sherlock had always been annoyingly reticent in any conversation.

"Tell me what you have discovered today, Sherlock."

"Other than the interesting fact that one cannot take on an entire bar full of ruffians single-handedly?"

"You deserved that, Sherlock. Now do stop being so frustratingly facetious and get down to facts."

"We did not do much investigating, brother," Sherlock replied, his voice quieting audibly, "we were – attending to other matters. I learned very little until after the fight tonight, from that Carter chap."

"The blond young fellow?"

"Yes."

Sherlock went on to detail quietly to me the events following the fight and all that Carter had said to him and Watson.

"Do you think the man will be of help, then?"

"I believe it very probable," my brother said, and I again wondered why he was speaking so softly. "He seemed to be sincerely interested in helping us, and I believe he was truly saddened at Andrew Watson's death."

"Truly?"

"If he is acting, it's the best job I have seen in a long time," my brother replied.

"You said he told you that Andrew was brilliant but chose his friends poorly – those chaps you got into the fight with, I suppose?"

"Yes," I heard him agree, "and Carter said that close to the end, Andrew seemed always distracted, worried about something."

"The sept that was after him, of course."

"Of course. They had caught on to whatever it was that he was trying to hide, and I would presume he was endeavoring to get out from under the anarchists' rule when he was killed for his pains," my brother returned quietly.

"Tomorrow, Sherlock, if we are going to come back to the town, we shall have to hire a trap ourselves – Inspector Tavish will be back on station duty starting tomorrow morning."

"Shall I make the arrangements?"

"I can do so when we get back to the hotel. I believe the most logical move now would be to examine the property that previously belonged to Andrew Watson."

"Did you obtain that permission while you were there, Mycroft?"

"Yes – the new owner said he could not care less if we did some exploring, so long as we did not disturb any of the buildings on the property."

"How much land is it, would you say?" Again, Sherlock's voice was so quiet that I could barely hear his question. Most irritating.

"Four, possibly five or six acres – but much of it is dotted with caves and other geographical quirks; plenty of available places for clandestine meetings," I replied.

Then I looked up as the moon broke through the cloud bank, casting a translucent beam of silvery light upon us and the surrounding countryside. Glancing at Sherlock, I saw him put a finger to his smiling lips and then point beside him – and I perceived why he had suddenly dropped the volume of his voice.

The poor doctor had fallen fast asleep there next to him, resting comfortably in the crook of my brother's thin arm.

Again, I marveled at the change in Sherlock – and especially today. I briefly wondered what had happened during the two hours they had spent in that cemetery. Sherlock had seemed exceedingly uncomfortable talking about it, and the Doctor had of course volunteered no information.

Regardless, I was very thrilled to see the change for the better in my brother, and I was extremely glad to know that the two of them were braving this sordid drama together.

With an indulgent smile I leaned back and closed my eyes as well – worrying about the two of them had made my day rather more tiresome than just the mere legwork I had done. I would be extremely glad to reach the hotel in Edinburgh and get a nice supper.

_**Holmes:**_

I was very relieved personally when we reached the hotel in Edinburgh – I was more tired than I wanted to admit, and my face was beginning to sting from the blows it had taken earlier in the evening. I should be extremely happy to change into a comfortable dressing gown and have a familiar pipe before attempting to get some sleep.

But I was sorry to have to awaken Watson – he was so very tired, and I was loathe to bring him back to reality.

I was spared the trouble when the carriage went rather too fast round a street corner near our hotel and he awoke with a start, looking around with a sleepy bewilderment that was almost comical.

Then, realizing he had fallen asleep on me yet again, he stiffened, his face flushing in mortification, and sat straight upright in the carriage. When I did not remove my arm, he glanced at me in embarrassment.

"You did not miss out on any intense conversation, Watson," I said dryly.

His reply was cut off by my brother's grouchy voice from across the carriage.

"Or any polite company, for that matter."

I heard Watson snicker, and the sound warmed my heart. In a moment Inspector Tavish had pulled up beside the curb in front of our hotel and hopped down from the seat.

"Here you are, gentl'men. Valet service only to our honored guests," the man said with a grin, opening the carriage door and extending a hand to Watson.

I noticed with some concern how stiffly he descended, and I realized that the day's exertions had probably indeed done away with any healing that had taken place since the attack. I should have to watch him carefully.

I pushed Mycroft good-naturedly out of the carriage, grinning at his mumbling about the ungodliness of the hour and how he needed some dinner.

"If you'll na be havin' need of me any further, gentlemen?"

"Thank you for all your help, Inspector," I said, "it has been a pleasure to work with you."

"Thank you for tha', Mr. Holmes. And good luck to all of you – mayhap we shall be seein' you all about sometime before you return to London. Evening, gents."

Mycroft raised a hand in farewell, but I could see that Watson was nearly asleep on his feet again. Taking his arm, I asked Mycroft if he were going to the hotel restaurant for some supper.

"Not a very staggering deduction, Sherlock."

Watson woke up enough to laugh at my own taunt being returned upon me, and I sent my brother a scathing glare.

"Will you join me?"

"I rather think you can answer that for yourself, brother mine," I sniffed disdainfully, leading Watson toward the stairs.

I heard Mycroft's chuckle behind me as he headed for the hotel restaurant, but my main attention was focused upon getting the two of us upstairs and to bed.

"Holmes, I must look at that eye of yours once we get up there," Watson mumbled sleepily, trying to hide a yawn.

I smiled – his concern for me as always took precedent over everything else, including his own comfort. Even when he was only half-awake.

"My dear chap, the only thing you are going to be looking at tonight is that pillow on your bed," I returned as we walked down the hall.

He muttered some protest that I easily overruled, and I fished in my pocket for our bedroom keys. Opening the door, I gently guided Watson in and closed it behind us.

I had my hand on the gas jet, about to turn it up, when Watson clutched at my arm – then I heard as well what had suddenly startled him violently awake.

A rustling noise to the left of us, in the direction of the sitting room. Someone was in the suite.

Watson was hanging tightly on to my arm, silently begging for me to make a move. I was about to try and open the door quietly to get out of the room once again when I heard a dull click that both of us could identify only too well – a cocking pistol.

"Do turn the lights on, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We've been waiting for you and Dr. Watson for some time now," a cold voice said out of the darkness.

And it took no deductive exercise on my part to know who the people were that gave the orders.

The group that had murdered Watson's brother – the anarchist group that had been after him and his brother's watch since London.

They had found us. And caught us, very neatly, in a well-laid trap.

TBC…


	22. Our Brother's Keeper

"If we are not our brother's keeper, at least let us not be his executioner" - Marlon Brando

Chapter 22: "Our Brother's Keeper"

_**Watson**_:

I heard that chilly voice come out of the darkness of our bedroom and felt a cold shiver run down my spine – and through the death-grip I held on Holmes's arm, I felt a similar tremor.

The men who had killed my brother and had tried to kill both of us to get the watch were out there somewhere in the darkness. I remained quiet, waiting for Holmes to make a move.

He gripped my arm reassuringly and then pushed me backward so my back was against the wall, and then he stepped over to the gas jet. I heard a small hiss, and then the cozy glow filled the dark room, revealing to us whom we were up against.

There were three of them, one of whom I recognized as one of the men Holmes had annoyed earlier in the day with his questions. The other two were unfamiliar to me, but evidently we were no strangers to them.

"All right, gentlemen," Holmes said, "the gas is on. Whose move is it now?"

One of them had a pistol trained on us, one leaned casually against the wall with his arms akimbo…and the third…

There was no doubt in my mind that this man was the leader…for who else would seat himself on one of the beds like a king, in the very apartment that had become our haven of safety in this unfamiliar territory?

He held himself with a casual grace and arrogance, his mouth set in a sneer. He was a tall man, at least three inches taller than Holmes or I, with a striking head of black hair. His deep brown eyes might have been kindly in someone else's face, but in his they only served as a display of his innate evil.

And his whole attitude chilled me to the core and I swallowed hard, willing my nerves to get a grip on the fear that was taking over my senses at the thought of being held by the same men who ruthlessly and mercilessly pushed my brother over a ravine.

"Well, Doctor Watson. We meet at last," the man said, directing his attention toward me. "Andrew always was speaking of his little brother John. Our informants got word that our two men had not made it back to Scotland, and so we were watching for you. And we've been tracing you since your arrival. I've _so_ wanted to meet Andrew's brother."

I refused to give the man any reaction.

Holmes stiffened beside me and I saw that my friend's face was set in a cold hard mask, his eyes their sharpest and blazing with anger. He stepped forward as though shielding me from these intruders and spoke in a hard voice that criminals everywhere had learned to fear.

"If you wish to speak than you shall address me." He said, "Watson has nothing to say to you."

The cruel brown eyes turned in the direction of my friend. "The 'Great Consulting Detective'. The good Doctor's stories do not disappoint - you are just as he described you, and you have proved most resourceful in this matter. _Most_ annoying and persistent."

The idea of the fiend speaking to Holmes like this, of reading my works and thoughts, made my skin crawl and lent me anger. I stepped forward shoulder to shoulder to Holmes and spoke.

"What in heaven's name do you want with me?!" All the stress and terror of the last few days went into those words, and this made his smile widen.

"I want your help, Doctor."

"You have an odd way of showing it." I whispered, recalling the beating I had received in the street, the worry he had placed upon Holmes and Mycroft…the meaningless death of my brother.

To my surprise the man's face colored somewhat…with rage more than anything else. "You were never supposed to be harmed." he said. "Only persuaded."

Holmes hand flew to my shoulder and clutched it protectively. "You need Watson as well as the watch," the detective hissed. "That is why your men did not kill him. Am I correct, Mr. Clyde?"

'Mr. Clyde' let out a mocking burst of laughter and clapped his hands together as though applauding an exceptionally bright pupil.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Holmes, well done indeed. Yes, you are correct…we require the Doctor's help as well as that of the watch."

My face blanched, but I swallowed hard and mustered my nerve. "Explain yourself."

The man's beady brown eyes seemed to bore holes in my head as he leaned in closer to my face.

"Your brother, Doctor, was a brilliant man. Quite an asset to our little group…the puzzle he left behind to confuse us is evidence of that. The watch is not the only piece, and you are part of the key."

"Of anarchists, you mean?"

"NO!" the man snapped furiously, "we were _reformers_. We were workers for the general good – the good of the people!"

I glared at the man, but he went on.

"However, Andrew was always rather a coward when it came to doing more than just _talking _about reform," he said with a tone of loathing.

I carefully controlled my fury at the man's words, took a deep breath, and listened as he went on.

"He decided to jump ship, taking with him a load of incriminating papers – papers that would convict us all of high treason in the eyes of your bloody British law!" the man nearly screamed, and the sound was deafening in the small room.

Holmes stiffened. That was it – the motive behind the murder. High treason was punished by hanging, no mercy. It was of no wonder that they killed him.

"How do you know that you need Watson?" Holmes said, "What piece of this puzzle do you already have?"

"We know because it bears the Doctor's name." Clyde said, again disgustingly calm and arrogant. "In a last desperate attempt he tried to send you the clues you needed to stop us. He'd read your cases, he knew of the friendship between the two of you…and no doubt that the great Detective and his baby brother would be able to solve the case - "

The eyes shifted to me again and he smiled. "Because he was in no fit state to do it himself, not after his little fall."

"Enough!" Holmes' voice cracked through the air. And he started forward again…only to meet the fist of the unarmed fellow who knocked him back and delivered a swift blow to his head. Holmes fell limply to the floor without a sound.

"Holmes!" I shouted and moved to help him…only to freeze as the distinct sound of a cocking gun followed my movements.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Doctor Watson." Clyde said, inspecting his fingernails. "He might yet come out of this alive. We do not require his assistance."

I was shaking now, from the reaction of Holmes's treatment and from the exhaustion of an already long day. "You'll have to kill me…even if I understood the watch, which I do not. I would rather join my brother than help you!"

The ruffian who had disabled Holmes was starting toward me…I took a step back.

"I think we can persuade you otherwise, Doctor."

I took a step back and felt the door at my back…the man leered at me and reached out.

Clyde's voice floated toward me in an unconcerned fashion. "You will find it much easier on yourself, Doctor, if you cooperate."

I moved to dart to the side…only to have my coat front snagged by the ruffian, who pushed me hard against the wall, driving the air from my lungs and making my ribs pang in protest. My collar caught at my throat - I couldn't breathe -

"Let him go!"

The voice shook with fury and hatred, and it rang with a soft clarity through the room, accompanied by the click of a familiar revolver.

All eyes turned to see Holmes, upright and very much awake, holding my old service revolver. By some miracle of Providence he had fallen beside my open valise and had retrieved it quietly from where I had stashed it back in Baker Street…out of habit more than anything else.

"Let him go, or I shall kill you!" Holmes said again, the revolver perfectly level and aimed directly at Clyde's head…even if the detective had not been a good shot…he could not have missed from this distance.

And for the first time since I had seen the man, Clyde looked genuinely worried. He shot a nervous look at Holmes, who was on his feet now. I realized then what Holmes had already perceived. Clyde would never risk his own life, would never bargain with it. From the moment Holmes had aimed my revolver…he had gained the upper hand.

"Release him." Clyde said quickly, licking his lips nervously.

My captor shot him a puzzled look.

"Let him go!" Clyde snarled, and the man jumped to obey, releasing my jacket and stepping back hurriedly.

I slid down the wall just keeping my feet, my breath wheezing painfully as I struggled for air.

Holmes shot me a worried look and circled round the bed he had fallen behind, keeping my gun trained on the leader's head.

"Get back," he said. "Stand together so that I can see you better…drop your gun, sir… good. Now, Mr. Clyde, I am sorry to have to change your plans like this but Watson will not be accompanying you - I thought we might like to have a little chat instead."

"Holmes?" I gasped, worriedly.

He shot me another look. "Watson, are you up to a bit of walking?"

I nodded, and straightened, knowing what he had in mind.

"Good." Holmes said, turning his gaze back to our captives. "Take your time - I'll be perfectly comfortable here. Find Mycroft in the restaurant, and send for the police."

"I think not, Mr. Holmes." Clyde's voice rang through the room.

Holmes glared at him. "I do not see how you have any other choice, Mr. Clyde."

Clyde smiled. "I was not so foolish as to come up here without insurance…"

"Explain yourself, sir."

"Just this, Mr. Holmes, my man Ian is downstairs in this hotel's restaurant. He's keeping an eye on that rather stout gentleman, the third member of your sweet little family?"

Holmes's hand suddenly tightened on the gun in a vise-like grip, and I felt my face drain of color. Mycroft – he was completely unprotected, oblivious to what was going on up here.

My horror and dismay must have shown on my features, for Clyde laughed and regained something of his casual air. With a chilling little smile, he went on.

"If I do not emerge from these rooms within the hour then that gentleman you've been traveling with will get a knife in his back before he can even get up from the table. Your dear brother Mycroft will have paid the price for imprisoning us."

Holmes' face was dead white…and though the gun in his hand did not waver I could see the terror of the thing in his eyes.

It had settled on me as well…in the last few days I had seen a side of Mycroft Holmes I had never before believed existed, and I knew that, like Holmes, his analytical mind hid a kind heart. I could not bear the thought of him in such danger. Could not bear the thought that Holmes should have to endure what I had endured with Andrew.

My friend met my gaze briefly, as though begging me to understand…and I nodded without hesitation. Such a shallow victory would never be worth his brother's life.

The tension dropped from Holmes and his eyes grew relieved. He faced Clyde again and said "We appear to have reached a stalemate, then."

"It appears so," the leader said. "We shall go now." He rose to his feet, moving slowly and carefully as though walking on eggshells.

His men followed him, and Holmes and I brought up the rear…the muzzle of my gun never leaving Clyde's back.

When he reached the door of the sitting room he turned back and spoke. "This is not the end, Doctor Watson…you will not always have your watchful detective with you. I will return."

"You will rue such a day." Holmes said quietly…steady as a rock.

Clyde sneered one last time, closing the door harshly behind him, his footsteps and those of his thugs fading down the steps.

Holmes let his arm fall to his side and sighed wearily. "Are you all right, Watson?"

"I would be in much worse straits if I you had not found my revolver." I replied, seating myself in one of the armchairs, holding my aching head in my hands.

"Thank your force of habit, old fellow…did he hurt you?"

"No…"

Holmes continued to frown at me and I relented.

"Not badly Holmes…I'll be fine. I am more worried about Mycroft."

Holmes started and his tired face blanked in an expression of shock. "Mycroft."

I straightened in sudden alarm. "Holmes, you had best go to him."

"No." Holmes waved me back into my chair, still dazed. "No….Mycroft - he's not in any danger! He's -"

Holmes erupted in a bout of swearing and collapsed into a chair himself, obviously shaken and frustrated.

"What is it, Holmes…what is wrong?!"

"Oh, Watson!" My friend moaned. "I am an imbecile!"

I glared at him, "Nonsense! You had no way of knowing they would be here. You just saved both our lives…and that of Mycroft as well."

"That's the point, Watson…his life was never in any danger."

I stopped taken aback. "I don't follow."

"Clyde bluffed, Watson…he never had a man in the restaurant."

"That is absurd; how else would he know…" I trailed off as the realization sunk in. "…oh."

"I _told _them he was in the restaurant, when I tried to send you for the police…he was in our hands and the cunning devil bluffed his way out."

A stunned silence filled the room.

And then overcome by the shock of the encounter, the relief of our narrow escape, and the absurdity of the situation, I did the only thing I could in that exhausted state.

I began to laugh.

Holmes raised his head and looked at me…rather surprised.

The door suddenly burst in, causing us to jump, revealing an extremely disgruntled Mycroft Holmes.

"Ridiculous," he muttered tossing his hat and coat down on the sofa and pacing over to the fireplace in a manner more suited to his brother than himself. "Too busy indeed at this late hour - I had to settle to have food sent up instead…in an establishment such as this…I ask you."

Mycroft paused noticing us for seemingly the first time. He scowled.

"Why aren't you resting?"

Holmes looked at me and I at him…and then both of us burst into hearty, weary laughter until our eyes streamed with tears.

TBC…


	23. Reached the Shore

_Help thy brother's boat across, and lo! Thine own has reached the shore. _

_Hindu Proverb_

_"Reaching the Shore"_

_**Holmes:**_

I did not sleep for the better part of that night but instead sat propped up in the bed beside Watson's, absently fingering his revolver.

I was infernally frustrated that I had been so careless…this was not an ordinary case, but one that involved Watson on a very personal level. And I had actually allowed myself to become shoddy, in this case of all I had ever encountered!

My friend did not sleep well either, but tossed fitfully upon his bed, haunted no doubt by disturbing dreams of the trap that we had so narrowly escaped tonight.

Though he had denied it, I could tell that his injuries were hurting him quite a lot. His violent grief in the graveyard coupled with the fight in the pub and the violent handling he had suffered had undeniably caused further damage to already fractured ribs.

As if to corroborate my thoughts, Watson rolled over and muttered something unintelligible, his chest rising shallowly with every wheezing breath. I sighed in frustration and lay down the comforting form of the gun…still warm where I had been gripping it. I would be no good to Watson this way – I had to do something…the only thing I really could do.

I had to think.

I left the room briefly and gathered several large cushions from the parlor. I used one of them to prop my Boswell up a little higher in hopes of aiding his lungs and then tossed the rest onto my bed and leaned against them. I would have to abstain from using a pipe, due to Watson's breathing.

But this would do very well, however. I closed my eyes and listened to the shallow but rhythmic sound of the wounded Doctor's breathing and soon lulled myself into in the comforting and familiar realm of my own sharp mind.

It did not make any sense. This entire case had been riddled with inconsistencies from the beginning…and the knowledge we had gleaned this evening only proved to show how little both Mycroft and I had been able to discover.

For instance, there was the account of Andrew Watson's death.

It was illogical that Clyde – I was inordinately pleased that I had correctly deduced the leader to be Andrew Watson's friend that the solicitor had mentioned – should have ordered him killed at all…if these papers were of such value and he was the only one who knew of their location, then why would they do away with him?

Unless it had been an accident? No…no, it could not have been…but what then?

I berated myself mentally - I was going about this all wrong. I needed facts…what were the facts? The coroner's report had shown there to be a great deal of alcohol in the brother's system…and he had died almost two miles outside of Edinburgh…surely he could not have traveled in that ice storm on his own? In that condition? Not if he had been that intoxicated.

But then, he had been an avid drinker…perhaps he was far more resilient, had become accustomed to its effects.

But then if he was lucid enough to travel he would not have been stupid enough to leave in such precarious weather, unless…

…unless he had had no choice.

It was entirely possible that the papers Andrew had stolen would have been missed immediately the next day, forcing him to flee that night despite the sudden and unexpected storm. It was not logical that having endangered the organization he would stand around waiting for them to kill him. And as a drinker he would have taken alcohol as a precaution against the cold and possible exhaustion.

Like a recently well-oiled machine that had been long neglected I could feel my mind begin to turn at its usual rate, making connections.

He had _not_ been returning to Rathclythe…he had been _fleeing to Edinburgh_…to catch the same train that we had arrived on, the express direct to London.

Having sent the watch to Watson ahead of time as a precaution, he had made steps to secure his own safety…perhaps he had even been trying to return to Watson in person.

But the sept had caught up with him…and since it was evident that he had only stolen and secreted the papers that night, they had not realized what he had done and they had killed him…and that was why they needed Watson now.

They could not discern the hasty puzzle that Andrew Watson had cobbled together - they had obtained a piece of the clue…that much I had discovered…but how?

It could not have been secreted on Andrew's person at the time of death…he would not have gone to all that trouble and then been that careless. And even then they would have been too late to recover it from his body by the time it was discovered. Then how….

My thoughts were interrupted by a distressed wheezing from the other bed. Watson was coughing and choking…struggling to breathe…his head had slipped off the pillow I had pushed under it.

I quickly rose from my bed and gently lifted him back onto the cushion raising his head. He unconsciously groaned and coughed, and then slowly his breathing evened and he settled again. I angrily cursed the men who had done this to him, watching him concernedly for a moment, and then returned to my place, my face creased with worry lines.

The little of the clue that we had, the watch and the numbers, had revealed nothing, all my expertise in codes and ciphers had revealed nothing…it could be nothing other than the numbers though there were no other data.

That was it!

Watson's watch had been cleaned before I had seen it in the Agra Treasure affair…it was entirely possible that it _had_ contained some other clue!

But if such was the case, where was it now?

For the second time during this case, I realized with chagrin that it was Watson who held the answers…and he desperately needed rest. I was not about to waken him merely to satisfy my deductions.

With another sigh of frustration I settled back into my cushions, touching the revolver on the bedside table briefly assure myself of its comforting presence.

And, aware that the doors and windows were securely fastened, that Mycroft was only in the next room, and that my brother slept as lightly as a cat despite his heavy snoring…I closed my eyes and gave into the pull of sleep myself, for a few hours at least.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I am sorry, Holmes." Watson sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat at the breakfast table. His breathing was still shallow…and the pained movements did not escape me.

"Never mind, Watson, you were not to know. It is the natural inclination to send a tarnished piece of jewelry to be cleaned."

"But if I had only known!"

"You did _not_ know, old fellow, so leave it at that."

"He is quite right, Doctor," Mycroft said. Folding his napkin and placing it aside, he picked up the post instead and began to rifle through it…most of the letters were from the officials at Whitehall, in any case.

Watson shifted again in his chair, his face white and drawn. He had eaten hardly anything. He noticed my piercing look and gave me a small smile…rising to his feet, he strode slowly over to the sofa and eased himself down onto it, laying his head back and closing his eyes.

It was not only the pain that was bothering him but the worry. How I wished I had some lead, some clue…but there was nothing to work with! And that fact made me little more than useless.

"Sherlock," came Mycroft's voice quietly.

I sighed and raised my head from my hands…my brother was slitting open a letter distractedly, only half his attention on me.

"I need something to work with, Mycroft." I growled, "that watch was our only lead and the thread has just snapped."

"Sherlock."

I stopped at this new sound in my brother's voice, and looked at him sharply…he was holding a telegram, staring at it.

I snatched it from his hands and scanned it quickly.

MCALLISTER HAS CRACKED STOP CONNECTION WITH SEPT CONFIRMED STOP PROVIDED SEPT WITH EVIDENCE FROM DOCTORS WATCH STOP NO LONGER IN POSSESSION STOP LESTRADE

"I have never been inclined to believe in miracles, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "But I can think of nothing else to describe this."

"What is it?" Watson asked, eyeing the paper clutched in my hands. "What does it mean, Holmes?"

"It means, Watson, that we were right. There _was_ something hidden in the watch. Mcallister must have found it – perhaps he was the one who even cleaned it…and when the clan began tracking the watch they traced it to him. That explains why he was more terrified of the clan than of my forcing information out of him in London."

Mycroft sighed and set down the rest of the post. "And now Mr. Clyde has possession of whatever was in the watch."

I rose quickly to my feet and went to the door.

Two voices followed me in protest.

"We need more data." I overruled them, "I will be back in a moment; I am sending a telegram of my own."

My luck held and I was able to catch the boy who had delivered the telegram…within a few moments I had my own written up and sent the lad off with it.

And within a few hours the results appeared in our sitting room in the person of the blond, blue-eyed chap named Carter.

The man took his hat off and looked around at us.

I smiled and strode forward, my hand outstretched. "Mr. Carter, my name is Sherlock Holmes…this is my brother Mycroft and I believe you already have met Dr. Watson."

Carter took my hand and his wary expression softened slightly at the sight of Watson.

"I have indeed, sir. Yer brother, as I've mentioned, spoke fondly of you…how are you liking yer stay in Edinburgh?…Andrew told me you hadn't been here since you were in yer late teens, on a family vacation."

Watson smiled and shook Carter's hand as well. "I wish I was in better health to enjoy it, Mr. Carter."

"Actually, Mr. Carter." I said waving the man to a seat "That is what I have asked you here to discuss…we are not, as you deduced, here on a visit or to collect money, but to investigate Andrew Watson's death."

"Andrew's death…but he suffered an accident on the road, Mr. Holmes."

I shook my head, "No, Mr. Carter…Andrew Watson was not foolish enough to suffer such an accident...he was murdered by the same band of men you so disapproved of in the Ship and Anchor last night."

Carter's eyes went wide with shock and he opened his mouth to speak.

I beat him to it. "I need your help, Mr. Carter, to bring them to justice."

Carter looked up at me with his earnest blue eyes and I was struck by his honest country face…in some ways he reminded me very much of Watson...it was of no wonder that Andrew had made this man his friend.

The fellow squared his shoulders and swallowed. "Andrew Watson was my friend, Mr. Holmes…I will do anything I can to help."

"Good man." I clapped him on the shoulder and seated myself in the other armchair. "You can begin by telling me about Andrew Watson's familiar haunts - it is absolutely vital that we find something that he may have hidden just before his death."

It was nearly one o'clock before Mycroft and I had finished picking the man's memory…and we were a good deal wealthier in information than before.

Carter gave a cordial goodbye to Mycroft and Watson and allowed me to escort him to the door.

"Thank you, Carter." I said. "You have been an invaluable help."

"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. If you have need of any help…even just a strong arm and an extra pair of eyes, don't hesitate to call me," Carter said, putting on his hat and giving my hand one last firm shake before setting off down the stairs.

I had turned back to the door when his voice stopped me.

"Mr. Holmes." He had paused and was fingering the railing. "What you said earlier about Andrew hiding something in his last days…there was a place on the estate - a knoll that he often went too, it was riddled with caves and even an old barrow. And it is possible…"

I smiled at him. A search of the grounds of the estate would indeed be helpful…and especially if there was a chance of recovering the documents so easily.

"We would have to wait until dusk, Carter…"

The man nodded eagerly. "Aye, Mr. Holmes. I figured that, it would nae do if we led them directly to the documents."

"You'll do it, then?"

"Aye," he tipped his hat, "For Andrew and his brother…" he shot a glance back at the sitting room. "Anythin'."

I smiled "I'll be ready then…bring arms if you have them. And be careful."

"You as well, Mr. Holmes…watch yer back." He turned his back and began down the steps again, vanishing into the shadows of the stairwell.

A spirit of contentment settled over me, for at last things were moving in a positive direction.

The contentment was dashed violently as I heard a sudden crash and a cry from the sitting room.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft frantically called me as I dashed back inside to see him bent over the fallen form of Watson who lay beside the table, the dishes from our lunch scattered across the floor.

My friend was already trying to pick himself up…his face a mask of pain, clutching his ribs, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Watson!" I bent and took his arm, gently raising him from the ground.

"I'm fine Holm-" he broke off with a harsh rasp and nearly doubled over, wrapping his arm tighter around his chest, coughing violently with a rattling sound that frightened me half to death.

I set my teeth and helped him to his feet, drawing him swiftly to his room, where I settled him on his bed.

Then I opened his bag which lay on the sideboard and drew out another injection of morphine. I had managed to remove Watson's jacket and was rolling up his sleeve when he tried to pull away.

"No, Holmes!"

"Watson, you will suffer a relapse without this…you have overworked yourself. I am sorry, but you do not have a say in the matter."

"But Holmes." His voice had tightened and had risen in pitch from his usual bass. He sounded more like a pleading child than the stalwart man I knew.

"You need to rest, Watson…I will be here, nothing will happen, your revolver is there on the table. We're fine."

He had screwed his eyes shut and his breathing came I harsh gasps…the stress, exhaustion and pain had completely taken his control. I lowered the needle towards his arm, and this time he did not struggle or even remonstrate.

When I would have drawn away he clutched onto my arm, his face turned away, no doubt embarrassed by his weakness. His breathing was still hitching, and it scared me.

I gripped his hand tightly and spoke softly. "Go to sleep Watson…I will be here, I promise."

A few moments passed and then I saw my friend's tense frame slowly relax and go limp…his breathing evened and his rigid face drew blank in a peaceful sleep.

I laid his hand down on his chest and backed away to sit limply on the oposite bed, clutching my hair. I had to end this case - now, tonight! Watson was worsening with every passing day of this cursed affair…and if this went on he would not be able to last much longer.

I stayed there until nightfall, uneasily watching over him, and waiting while the hours dragged by…at long last there was a knock at the sitting room door and it opened to reveal Carter…armed with a large revolver.

I rose to my feet without a word and drew on my coat and cloth cap just as Mycroft entered the room. He frowned in disapproval.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"To find the documents. I'll be back in a while, I'm leaving you the revolver…watch him, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, this is not wise…you promised him!"

"I'm doing this for him…he can't take any more of this Mycroft - this needs to end, _now_."

My brother sighed…resigned. "You will be careful."

"I will. Watch him Mycroft, please."

Mycroft smiled. "I will, brother."

I turned to follow Carter out the door, but he looked round me into the room.

"Are we nae goin' to take the Doctor with us, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, his blue eyes darting to the closed bedroom door.

"No, Carter. He was in so much pain after you left that I gave him a sedative – he shall not awake for several hours. By that time we should be back with any evidence we have found."

Carter nodded in response to my statement, glancing once more at the door of Watson's room, and we made our way swiftly from the hotel to a small two man trap he had brought.

It was a cold but clear night, thank heaven and we made the journey in silence…both acutely aware of the danger we were heading for.

I thrilled as the town of Rathclythe came into view and we turned off the road toward the former estate of Andrew Watson. Carter tied off his horse, secured his revolver in hand, and began down a small dirt path that went to the left of the house.

"Just through here, Mr. Holmes." He led me into a stand of thick trees that resembled more of a small forest.

After only fifteen minutes or so we were completely out of sight or hearing and I was devoutly glad…this greatly lessened our chances of being caught.

I drew up suddenly as I realized that Carter had stopped.

I turned to him in some confusion and saw a smile on his face, his blue eyes set on the darkness just in front of us, five men stood there…some holding weapons.

The realization struck me like a blow and I felt my stomach drop out beneath me….how could I have been so stupid?

Carter had led me straight into a deathly trap. I could almost feel its jaws click shut around me as I stared at the men waiting for me.

I had been betrayed.

TBC…


	24. In a World Alone

You don't live in a world all alone. Your brothers are here too." - Albert Schweitzer (1875 - 1965)

Chapter 24: "In a World All Alone"

_**Holmes:**_:

I stiffened, instinctively bracing myself as I saw the group of men standing before me – two of them the same ones who had come to our rooms the previous evening, and with them at least three others. All of them larger and stronger-looking than I. With that traitor Carter, the odds were six to one.

It took none of my great deductions to see that that kind of chance was not very likely to turn in my favor.

But I was not about to give up without a fight.

Carter turned to me with a wicked smile, leering at my shocked expression – and I quickly changed the look to one of intense loathing and hatred for the weasel standing before me. He scowled at me, and for a breathless moment no one spoke, the only sound being the wind howling through the forest around us.

And I took the opportunity to make a break for the gap in the trees. I did not get very far.

Two of the men intercepted me as I tried to run for it. As the one grabbed for my coat, I seized his arm and, applying leverage, forcefully flipped him off his feet, sending him crashing into the other.

Obviously, the thugs had not before encountered someone with a fair working knowledge of Baritsu. Pity.

Suddenly I was knocked off my feet when Carter dove for my legs, tackling me very effectively to the ground. He landed one pathetic punch to my face before I drew my legs up and kneed him in the stomach as hard as I could, then kicked him the rest of the way off me.

I scrambled to my feet just in time to dodge a flurry of well-aimed blows from the man who had struck me in the hotel last night – obviously, judging from his precision and timing, he had been trained as a fighter. I dodged and parried for several seconds before I saw behind him Carter get to his feet and come at me with a dead tree branch.

And in that instant I lost my focus and was sent reeling back by a staggering blow from my opponent. I felt blood trickling down my face as I tried desperately to keep my equilibrium.

Just in time my instincts screamed a warning and I threw myself to the side. Carter's branch came slamming down with a splintering crash on the ground beside me, and I again scrambled to get up, receiving a fierce kick from Carter for my pains that might have broken my nose had I not thrown my hands up in front of it.

I could hear the men shouting and realized they were becoming very angry that I was not to be captured so easily. As I weakly staggered once again to my feet, breathing heavily, Carter and the other ruffian both came at me now simultaneously, and I abstractedly realized I was spending too much time dodging and not enough time hitting.

Things were not looking very bright for me. I redoubled my efforts in a last-ditch attempt to extricate myself from this trap.

I went in under Carter's flailing fist and rammed my elbow as hard as I could into his stomach, then swept his legs out from under him. He screamed in pain and grabbed my own ankle as he dropped, effectively tripping me and I went sprawling on the slippery ground, wincing when my body slammed headfirst into a tree.

Shaking the stars out of my vision, I had just time to brace myself before two of the other men were upon me, and they were coming in far too fast for me to use any kind of Baritsu or any really skillful boxing techniques. I was too busy in avoiding the mass of flying fists to worry about style at that point.

I dodged a vicious blow to the head, returning the favor with more luck than my opponent, and sent him sprawling into the path of the other.

Then, I decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. No matter how great my skills, I was no match for six men. So I turned and beat a hasty retreat through the forest.

Or rather I tried to.

Too late, I realized that Carter had nipped round behind me while I was engaged in my latest battle and was now blocking my way with a drawn revolver.

I stopped short and my gaze darted round me – trees on every side. I might be able to make it in the approaching darkness, using the trunks for shields; a moving target was much harder to hit, especially in the dark.

I might just be able to make it.

But before I could carry out that desperate plan, I felt a sudden sharp flashing pain in the back of my head, and the forest exploded around me.

_**Watson:**_

When I awoke, I was very definitely regretting my allowing Sherlock Holmes to talk me into taking a sedative – I was feeling once again that sluggish, frozen numbness in my mind and body that I hated so. Granted, the sharp pain in my chest had subsided slightly, but the fog around my brain was not a welcome side effect.

I got unsteadily out of the bed, very gingerly stretching – my ribs still ached considerably. I sat down in a chair with a weary sigh, wishing to heaven this whole sordid business would soon be over.

My brain was still elsewhere – and my main sensation was one of annoyance at being coerced into taking morphine. I needed a cup of coffee or some such stimulant if I were going to be of any use to Holmes in the near future.

I got up and stiffly made my way toward the sitting room, where I assumed the Holmes brothers would be, and opened the door leading to it.

It swung inward to reveal Mycroft Holmes sitting at the table amidst a litter of official-looking paperwork, his open portfolio sitting beside him on the floor.

As I stepped, or rather staggered, into the room, I was startled to see the man jump as if in shock and stare guiltily at me – guiltily? Whatever for?

"Oh, Doctor – I was thinking you would sleep for a while longer," Mycroft said, swallowing hard.

"What time is it?"

"Umm, after seven," the man replied nervously.

"Would you happen to know where Holmes went?" I asked, sitting down stiffly on the couch, seeing that my friend appeared to have made himself scarce.

"Well, Doctor, the fact is -" Mycroft was stammering like a guilty school-lad, and I raised my eyebrows, my muddled brain not comprehending a reason for his discomfort.

"Is what, Mycroft? He told me he was not going anywhere, so I would assume –" I broke off as my mind suddenly cleared somewhat, and I could see by the perspiration standing out on Mycroft's face that my sudden suspicions were well-founded.

I sprang to my feet, ignoring the sharp shooting pain in my side.

"He _didn't_!"

The elder Holmes's face flushed bright red with embarrassment.

"Doctor, please do sit down – you will harm your -"

"To blazes with that! He _TOLD_ me he would stay here!" I stormed, angry beyond description with my friend. "He nearly force-fed me a sedative just so that he could leave without my knowledge!" I went on, my voice shaking at the feeling of deep betrayal.

"No, Doctor!" Mycroft snapped, rising from his chair and nearly shoving me back to the couch, "He made you rest because he was deathly afraid you were going to have a relapse! Not because he intended to leave you! After you fell asleep he was close to a breakdown with worrying about you and I nearly gave him a sedative myself!"

I had never heard Mycroft raise his voice before, and the result was rather impressive.

"I – I am sorry, Mycroft," I stammered, flushing in embarrassment.

"Do not be, Doctor. It was a perfectly natural deduction," the man sighed, mopping his massive forehead with his massive handkerchief, "and I for one was not thrilled when he ended up leaving. But I promised him I would stay to look after you – and you know how forceful the little blighter is, Doctor!"

I nearly snickered at the elder brother's choice of words – hearing the great Sherlock Holmes called 'the little blighter' dissipated some of my anger. But I was still very, very displeased.

"Why the devil did he leave, Mycroft? He's running himself into more danger than he realizes!"

Mycroft's red face turned a deeper shade of crimson, and my heart plummeted.

"He found out something, didn't he?" I whispered, praying it were not so.

The elder brother nodded reluctantly.

"And he left to chase down a lead. Without me. Without any protection whatsoever," I went on, staring into space.

"He was not alone, Doctor. He left with Carter…they may have discovered where the documents are hidden on Andrew's estate."

"He went with Carter?" I asked, feeling slightly better about my friend's safety if he were not alone – but no less angry with him for his deception.

"Yes, Doctor," Mycroft said ashamedly.

"How long ago?"

"Little more than an hour ago."

"In the dark?"

"He thought it best, Doctor. You know how Sherlock is."

I did indeed, and I was now absolutely, coldly furious. And growing angrier by the minute. I rose in my vexation and began to pace up and down, my irritation forming into something akin to rage.

"How dare he!" I exploded at last, my vehemence startling the elder brother so badly that he dropped his massive handkerchief.

"Doctor –"

"Don't you _doctor_ me, Mycroft! How _could_ you have let him do that?" I cried, turning on the elder brother, my eyes flashing with indignation. "You _know_ he promised me he would stay here – that is the _only_ reason I allowed him to talk me into that morphine!"

"Doctor, I could not prevent him –"

"Yes, you could have! You could have stopped him, since I was incapable of doing so at the time! He could be out there now, getting himself _killed_!" my voice broke at the last word, and I slumped into the nearest chair, putting my throbbing head in my hands.

"Doctor. Please, please believe me when I say – I am sorry," the man said quietly, without making an effort to excuse his complicity in the deception practiced on me – indeed, we both knew there really was no excuse.

I sighed – I was so very, very tired. And worried. And scared.

"You – you are quite right, Doctor. I – I should not have allowed him, and I do humbly apologize."

I nodded at the man, who was standing uncomfortably in the center of the room, looking very appalled at my outburst. Then I walked over to the window of the sitting room and stood, looking out over the beautiful city of Edinburgh, trying to dispel the remnants of my explosive anger.

In the sunset's gorgeous hues, the town looked truly to be one of the most stunning in the world – everywhere the eye could see were row after row of lights, casting a twinkling blanket over the city now preparing for bed.

I remembered all the times my family had vacationed here in the city – all the places we had gone, the museums we had visited, and the streets we had walked, all before Mother had died when I was a lad.

_Wait_.

An uneasy feeling that had been sitting in the back of my mind even before the sedative came to the front. The connection was made with unfailing and sudden clarity, as easily and beautifully as two and two making four.

We had not taken a family vacation here after Mother died. I had been seven – Andrew had been twelve.

But this morning, Carter had remarked on Andrew's telling him that I had not been here since my late teens..

Andrew never would have told Carter that we had vacationed here when I was a teenager. On our last vacation in Edinburgh I had been only a child.

Carter had lied.

Which meant there was a very strong possibility that he had lied about everything else he had told us.

And if so, Holmes had followed him straight into the snapping jaws of a deadly trap.

"Doctor! Are you all right?"

My suddenly terrified mind barely registered Mycroft Holmes's worried queries, as I realized what this meant. The solution became at once clear to me, and I saw the whole process – suspicion, betrayal – and then the trap snapping shut upon us both.

If Carter were a traitor, then that anarchist group had Holmes by now. And then they would come after me.

And they had to have realized by this time that the most effective weapon they had against me was not force or personal danger, but rather the life of my dearest friend.

With Holmes's life in their hands, I knew I should have no choice but to help them in whatever they asked of me.

The thought was not a very pleasant one, and I shivered.

_Please, Holmes, please watch Carter – he is not to be trusted! Be careful!_

_**Holmes:**_

A could feel my heart beating in my head – what was it doing there? That was not at all a logical situation. The confounded throbbing simply would not stop, and I could not figure out why. Finally I gave up trying to puzzle it out.

I attempted to open my eyes, but decided it was not worth the effort with a headache such as that one. I would simply rest for a moment.

Then like a thunderbolt the facts of what had transpired in the last hour hit me with a grave impact, and my eyes flew open – I had been led into a trap by that sneaking devil Carter. What had happened?

When I opened my eyes, I saw weird shadows being reflected on the stone walls around me – we had not remained in the forest then. Where were we?

I looked round, seeing that the flickering light came from several large torches and lanterns hung from various hooks in the wall. The unsteady illumination revealed to my gaze several large stone slabs or boxes, about four feet high, beside one of which I was sitting.

Even as my eyes took in my surroundings, my other senses were immediately categorizing the facts that I was bound hand and foot with stout rope and that a muffler was wound round my mouth and chin – I had obviously been captured.

And my aching head bore testament to that very elementary deduction. However, I felt no dizziness or nausea, which indicated the absence of a concussion. Thank heaven for small favors.

As my eyes adjusted to the ghostly light, I saw a small knot of men at the other end of my stone prison, talking animatedly. When I made a slight scuffling noise as I tried to ascertain my chances of loosening my hands, the two men closest to me looked in my direction.

It is most difficult to appear threatening and intimidating when secured in such a fashion, and I believe I only succeeded in looking ridiculous. But I tried anyway to glare at the group with a look that would make most London criminals shudder.

But these Scottish anarchists were obviously not of the ordinary London breed. Cool, calculating, and deadly – a far cry from the gutter rejects that I was accustomed to encountering.

On a less personal case, I should have relished the chance to prove my steel against such worthy opponents. But this case had struck too close to home for me. Far too close. I felt only revulsion, no respect, for the men now heading towards me across the cold stone floor, their footsteps oddly echoing in the tomb-like enclosure.

I looked up with as much defiance as possible in that awkward position and met Carter's innocent blue eyes with a glare of hatred.

"I must say, Mr. Holmes, that I rather underestimated your fighting ability – even after that scuffle in the Ship and Anchor the other evening," the little sneak said to me with a leering grin.

Oh, if only I could have had my mouth free, such a scathing retort I could have made to that!

Carter was no doubt about to go on, enjoying being able to taunt me without my being capable of replying, when there was a scuffle near the entrance of this stone prison, and I saw with a little trepidation a familiar figure step regally through the doorway.

Clyde. The leader of the group – he had come to see his underlings' success. The man strode over to where I sat, his huge frame towering above Carter and myself.

The man glanced down at me with a patently false smile – then his eyes narrowed, and the smirk turned to a scowl of rage. He spun on his heel and grabbed Carter by his collar, nearly holding the smaller man off the floor in his anger.

"You imbecile! I told you to either get both of them or just Watson! Not Holmes! Where's the Doctor?" he snarled. Carter's blue eyes were wide with fright, and it amused me not a little to see him cringe and scrape before this man.

"He – he had taken a sedative," the man gasped out, "and Holmes insisted that we let him sleep – I couldn't protest without arousing suspicion!"

I felt a large glimmer of joy in the realization that my suspicious nature and my wanting to keep Watson out of the affair had saved him from being captured as well.

Releasing the now-gasping Carter, the man Clyde turned his gaze to me. I was getting a pain in my neck from having to stare up at the man, when he suddenly squatted down beside me.

"So, Mr. Holmes. You gave the Doctor a sedative, did you? Very convenient."

I glared at him as well as I could with my eyes, unable to speak.

"It makes it all the more easier to snatch him as well – he will put up less of a fight when half-drugged," the man said, his malicious brown eyes looking at me with undisguised glee.

My own eyes widened in horror before I could stop myself from showing emotion, and the fact seemed to please the man immensely. He let out a low chuckle.

"It really was not a smart move, Holmes. Leaving the doctor unconscious and coming out here with Carter all alone."

That was one fact I had already managed to deduce for myself.

"I must thank you for making it easier to get hold of John than it would have been otherwise," the man went on, and a shiver of revulsion at hearing this villain use Watson's Christian name in such a familiar way went traveling coldly down my spine. Clyde continued, his beady eyes drawing pleasure from the helplessness I knew must be evident in my own features.

"I rather think he will not be capable of putting up much of a struggle, in that condition," the leader said with a mocking smile, "and at any rate, I am certain he will now be much more open to reason when I have you to use as bait, Holmes."

I was horrified – how could I have been so stupid? I knew something about Carter rang false, and I was foolish enough to think I would be better off going with him alone. I had left Watson unconscious with only my brother to protect him – and Mycroft was not of much use in a fight.

And worst of all, I knew that the Scot's words were correct – I knew my Watson. And I knew that he would do whatever he had to to keep me from harm, even to the point of putting his own life on the line if necessary.

I had just become no more than bait in a trap for my dearest friend, and the thought made me feel more like a traitor than that Carter chap standing over me was. The ghastly idea turned me sick to my stomach, and I shuddered inwardly.

_Please, Mycroft – be aware of your surroundings! Please be watchful – it is yours and Watson's only chance!_

TBC…


	25. In the Dark

"No greater love hath a man than he lay down his life for his brother. Not for millions, .. not for glory, not for fame. For one person, .. in the dark .. where no one will ever know .. or see. " - J. Michael Straczynski

Chapter 25: "In the Dark"

_**Watson:**_

Mycroft listened with an increasingly pale face to my explanation of my suspicions of Carter's falsity, and no sooner had I finished than he rose to his feet.

"That's it, I have had enough of this affair…it has gone too far. We are going straight for the police. Tavish should still be on duty. I'll get your coat, Doctor."

He moved to the coat rack, pulling on his own wraps.

The police. Good…but…doubt suddenly entered my mind. If Mycroft led the police to Clyde and the others…than surely they would kill Holmes before they could be caught.

Clyde had made it painfully clear that I was what he wanted…good heavens, what had I done?

I had to go alone, without Mycroft. And I had to go now.

I nodded at the elder Holmes and made a great show of getting to my feet, coughing deep in my chest and stumbling purposefully.

The ruse worked. Mycroft had paused in his preparations and was watching me with concern…his natural astuteness clouded by worry. "Are you all right, Doctor?"

"I…I'll be fine Mycroft…" I gasped, as I swayed and leaned heavily on the table. "I – I do not think I will be of much help to you though…you'd best go without me. I shall be fine here…go dig that stubborn brother of yours out of trouble -"

Mycroft glanced at me and then to the door. I hated to play on his emotions like this…he was obviously torn between his promise to protect me and his duty and love for his younger brother.

I sighed and said in a gruff, irritated voice. "Mycroft, please. They cannot possibly try anything tonight, and you must find Holmes quickly. I will only slow you down." I added a rasping cough for good measure.

Mycroft took a shaky breath and, as I knew it would, his familial duty asserted itself. "He will kill me if anything happens to you, Doctor…use the revolver without hesitation if you have to. I will send a constable back."

I nodded again and waved him off, seating myself at the table where the revolver lay.

Mycroft pulled on his coat, yanked open the door, threw back one last worried glance at me, and then disappeared.

No sooner had the door shut then I was on my feet again.

I knew that they were holding Holmes on the estate - they had to be. I could hire a trap to take me out to Rathclythe far before Mycroft convinced Tavish of the danger.

I hurried back to the bedroom as quickly as my protesting injuries would allow and picked up my discarded boots…then realized I could not possibly tie them with only one hand.

This was ridiculous. I tore the cursed sling from my shoulder, moved to my medical bag and pulled out a roll of bandaging. With the aid of my teeth I was able to wrap my wrist tightly and knot it in a crude but effective version of a brace.

I sat on the bed, pulled on my boots and a dark jacket that buttoned up all the way to my chin…the effort made the injured wrist pang, but it still appeared to be functional.

I decided against my greatcoat and instead pulled on a scarf and a dark cloth cap for additional warmth…the cab that I meant to take and the effort I was about to put forth would keep me warm enough.

Now dressed, I stalked back to the sitting room and picked up my revolver, making sure that it was fully loaded, reveling in the familiar weight and feel of it.

I pocketed it and a few pounds…it would take some persuasion to get a cab to take me to Rathclythe at this time of night without prearrangement. I dug in the disarrayed pile of Holmes's maps until I found one marked with Andrew's estate…and on an afterthought went back into the bedroom and dug out the dark lantern from Holmes's burglary kit.

Then I rose to my feet, my preparations made…feeling rather like a soldier who had just donned his uniform. It made a great deal of difference to have a purpose before me, and helped me to combat the pain and the fear.

If this was to be a battle, then like the ancient knights of Britain, I had donned my armor and spurs and there was no turning back now.

I snorted thinking of how ridiculously romantic and idealistic such an idea would sound to Holmes…

Holmes...what if…

I struck the morbid idea firmly from my mind, opened the door, and set out to find a willing and able cabbie.

I could not afford to think such things…I _would not_ think them. I would find Holmes alive, I would be in time. And I would bring about his release no matter the cost. It was the least I could do for such a man, who had become…in all honesty, every bit as much my brother as Andrew had been in my boyhood.

_Hold on, Holmes…I am coming._

_**Holmes:**_

My limbs were going numb…I could no longer feel my hands and my legs ached from the cramped position I had been placed in.

I had deduced that we were in the barrow that Carter had mentioned. Emptied of any artifacts it may have held in antiquity, it was nevertheless recognizable in its squat, oval form…with its rough stone slab walls and precarious ceiling. This was apparently one of the sept's more regular meeting places, as evidenced by the rough table and chairs…and collection of wax on every surface that could readily hold a candle.

They were gathered around the table now…bent over a collection of papers, their faces barely discernable in the dim light a good sixteen feet away from where I sat. Clyde was seated in the middle of them…speaking in a low tone, gesturing at the papers, and every once in a while shooting me a condescending grin that wrung my stomach.

The only company in my dark little corner was Carter…who sat perched on a fallen wall stone, a leer on his weaselly face. To think that I had ever had the inclination to compare him to my good-hearted Watson.

I shifted, trying to lessen the pain of the uneven ground beneath me as it dug into my legs. For the thousandth time I tested the ropes and found them as strong as ever.

Never in all my years had I been in such a situation, bound nearly beyond movement in a such a narrow dark space, denied even the power of speech. I have never been the least claustrophobic…but in such an atmosphere and with my increasingly cramped muscles I was rather inclined to develop such a fear.

My agitated movements attracted Carter's attention and his face adopted a ridiculously mocking expression of sympathy.

"A wee bit frustrated, are we, Mr. Holmes? Do you fancy a chat to keep yer mind off things until the Doctor arrives?"

I glared at him but the nauseating man seemed only to take encouragement from this fact. He rose to his feet and approached, I tried to shift away but with little result…my leaden muscles aching in protest.

His smile widened and he took hold of my coat, lifting me slightly, his face only inches from mine.

"Having a little trouble, Mr. Holmes? Things not going quite as you planned? The great consulting detective finding things a little difficult? We're a good deal more trouble than you had counted on, aren't we?"

I was incapable of speech but I snorted in disgust and rolled my eyes away from his face.

He released me abruptly and I fell back against the stone wall, scraping my head, unable to repress of grunt of pain.

Several blows landed on my unprotected stomach, and when I tried to curl in on myself he lifted me again…and he was not smiling now.

"It's men like you who think you can run the world…men like you who make weaklings of patriots like Andrew Watson. He might have made a change, you know, before he was weakened by the likes of you, before he became a weak, sniveling coward living in the shadows of other men…just like his pathetic excuse for a brother. You've made a weakling out of him as well."

He dropped me onto the ground and drove a boot into my chest just below my ribcage, driving the air neatly from my lungs. I choked and gasped, my efforts for breath impeded by that infernal gag. The blows did not stop either, jabbing painfully into my near numb arms and legs and sides…

"Carter."

Clyde's voice sounded very close to us and the abuse abruptly ended. I lay choking on the dusty earth, waiting for my breath to return and the pain to subside. When I was able to focus it was to see that Carter had straightened and now stood facing his master.

"Sorry, Mr. Clyde…he was being difficult."

Clyde sniffed and looked down at me. "Just don't damage him too much, lad…we need him to motivate the Doctor."

Carter nodded like a puppy eager to please…the irony of this image and his earlier statements to me made me laugh…though it sounded more like a cough through the gag.

Clyde turned his condescending gaze to me and spoke again.

"Carter, go and help Thomas stand watch…I will keep Mr. Holmes company for a while."

Carter left without a word and Clyde seated himself on the stone that his subordinate had occupied earlier. He waited, smiling, until I had managed awkwardly to regain my former position.

Then with an arrogant smile he drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking in a long draught, and wafting the smoke deliberately in my direction.

I sighed with frustration…yet another thing I was denied. Perhaps there was more to Watson's lectures on abstinence than I had earlier given them credit for.

"This case has been rather frustrating for you hasn't itm Mr. Holmes? I imagine it must be a rather galling experience for you to be attacked so closely to your own haven in Baker Street…to be taken in so easily."

_Oh heavens_, I thought…it seemed that no matter where I went in my detectival pursuits I would continually meet egotistical maniacs whose greatest wishes were to prove me inferior.

"I must admit that Andrew Watson was a clever man." Clyde went on, inured by the sound of his own voice. "He out-thought even me…he could have been a great asset to our cause."

I attempted to ignore him, closing my eyes and leaning back against the cold stone…this was the last thing I wanted to listen to at the moment, but to my dismay he continued, more to himself than to me, continuing for quite a while, recounting the recruiting of Watson's brother, of his initial enthusiasm, of the months of work they had accomplished with his help.

And then the anarchist said something that did interest me.

"We had such plans, Mr. Holmes, such plans…those documents you see…the ones he stole last January, held our designs for a great event."

I glared at him bidding him silently to go on…he smiled, knowing that he had my full attention now.

"It was to have taken place this year, Mr. Holmes, in June…and if we had been able to carry out the plans that the little coward did away with, it would have changed the face of the world. And brought an end to the tyrannical rule of the great institutions of Europe."

I frowned in confusion and he chuckled patronizingly. "Can you not guess, Mr. Holmes…I am surprised at you, a good patriotic Brit such as yourself."

No. It was too fantastical…he could not mean...

But the maniacal grin on his face told me that he could and would have done it had such an opportunity arisen. He laughed outright as I began to struggle again…a horrified look on my face.

"Ah…so you _can_ live up to your reputation. I was beginning to worry, Mr. Holmes…yes I am indeed referring to the Golden Jubilee of our beloved queen, long may she reign. We had received word that more than half of the dignitaries and officials of Europe would be attending the old dear's party last June."

He leaned in, his smile widening to reveal the large white teeth of a predator.

"A beautiful chance to rid the world of their corrupt influences in one fell swoop."

My breath began to come fast and hard, and I tugged at the bonds on my hands until they bled. I am not given to hysteria but at that moment I was very frightened indeed. Mycroft had been right…this went far beyond the bounds of Baker Street and even Scotland…this threatened the peace of the Realm, the provinces…of Europe herself.

And Andrew Watson had stopped this dastardly assassination plan single-handedly – and given his life as payment for that cause.

Watson's brother – was in every sense of the word a _hero_?

Watson was far more patriotic than I but even I could see that such a catastrophe would have caused a war such as we had never seen. A conflict that would have spread across the entire world. Indeed, I remembered the rumors that had arisen last spring regarding some planned attempt – I had discounted them as merely that, rumors.

Clyde's smiling face had changed on the instant to a hard, cold mask of hatred. And when he spoke, it was with the bitterness of a year's worth of bottled-up hatred.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, Andrew took off with all the plans and everything we had for that glorious coup – and we did not find out until after he was dead that he had done so. It took months to track down part of the clue he left, and even more time to track down his younger brother," he spat angrily, his brown eyes flashing with the fires of vengeful hatred.

"Andrew Watson decided to make a hero of himself – so we executed him for his traitorism to our cause. But those papers must now be destroyed, else we shall all stand in constant danger of hanging if they were ever to be discovered. We've waited a long time for this, Holmes!"

The man's maniacal glee was overpowering, and I shuddered at the thought of what they would have accomplished had Andrew not saved the nation from their dastardly plan. They were mad with rage and a lust for vengeance.

And I was trapped in this den of madmen, and if they had their way…Watson would be as well.

And then I would be the object of persuasion used to find and destroy the only evidence capable of condemning them.

Clyde rose to his feet, no doubt satisfied that he had tormented me fully, and I continued to struggle until he had returned to his position at the table. Then I let myself fall limply back against the wall.

For the first time in my life I was utterly powerless – I could do nothing but hope and pray that someone would notice something had gone amiss…Mycroft. Mycroft would watch after Watson, surely. He would not allow him to be caught or to do anything so foolish as to…

A sudden gunshot and then a muffled shout rent the night air and I froze, listening with the other men in the barrow. After a moment Clyde went to the ancient door and shoved it open, peering into the darkness…then he returned the shout, turned and motioned one of his men to fetch me.

He did so, drawing a knife and cutting the bonds on my legs, pulling me roughly to my feet before the feeling had had a chance to return. Clyde took hold of my bound arm and yanked me to the entrance of the barrow, and I peered out into the darkness….

And a shock of terror ran through me.

No, it could not be – please, no…

But it was…I recognized the voice and the figure all too well.

Watson…my faithful Boswell had come to rescue me…and in doing so had condemned us all to the mercy of a group of madmen, bent on revenge for his brother's turning.

TBC…


	26. Redeeming His Brother

Psalm 49:7 "None of them can by any means redeem his brother, nor give to God a ransom for him"

Chapter 26 : "Redeeming his Brother"

_**Watson:**_

As the cab dropped me off on the road just outside Rathclythe, the bitter wind sent a shiver coursing through my already weakened frame. But I was chilled in mind as well as body; for, I am not ashamed to admit, I was at that particular moment frightened half out of my wits.

I had never been so deathly afraid before – not of anything, including the horrors of battle and war, the dangerous villains from Holmes's cases, the climactic confrontations we had had in the past – nothing had before frightened me so. But I was scared now - very, very scared.

I took a deep breath and started off down the dirt road weaving around the town, toward where I had learned my brother's estate lay. As the wind howled, I shivered once more, realizing that the pain in my ribs that had lessened after my morphine dosage this afternoon had returned with a vengeance, and I was going to have to watch myself to not overexert the injury. But my pain was the last thing on my mind right now.

As I continued onward, I suddenly realized rather uncomfortably that I had absolutely no scheme of what I thought I was doing – I had no clue where Holmes and Carter had gone other than that they were headed for Andrew's property; I could not even guess where to find them. And I had no idea what I should do it I _should_ find them.

I was very, very upset at both helpless thoughts.

But I resolutely pushed the fear to the back of my mind, willing my nerves to be under some semblance of control at least. I had to be strong, for Holmes's life might rest upon the quickness of my reflexes and upon my thinking.

And _that_ thought scared me more than the previous ones. But I determinedly pressed onward despite the gnawing unease.

I had gone for about a mile when I heard the soft nickering of a horse, and I froze. But I could hear no sound of hooves, and so I gathered that the horse was stationary. I carefully lifted the shield on my dark lantern just a fraction – and I saw the beast, attached to a small trap, at the edge of a copse of trees.

Wary of any lurkers, I shut the shade on the lantern once more and swallowed hard, praying that none of the gang were anywhere around, and then I walked over to the horse, whispering to it quietly to prevent its raising an outcry.

I once more carefully unshielded the lantern and inspected the trap – and saw something that turned me at once both sick with fear but also glad that I was on the right track.

Holmes had left his deerstalker on the seat of the vehicle, to ensure it would not slide off and possibly endanger his movements if they ran into trouble.

I picked it up and stuffed it in my pocket, stubbornly refusing to allow the emotions attached to the article to cloud my alertness, and then I inspected the path I was following. Two sets of footprints were clearly visible, one obviously made by a tall, thin man – and they were very recent, for the loose dirt surrounding them had not yet blown away with the high wind.

I felt a small glimmer of pride at my deductions, but shaking it off I followed the prints by the tiny sliver of lantern-light until they vanished in a clump of trees off the path. I halted, shading the lantern, and listened intently.

Not a single sound struck my ears, other than the howling of the wind through the trees. Nothing.

I realized I was shivering violently, and I took a moment to calm my overwrought nerves, taking deep breaths and thinking about the possibilities.

If Carter had walked Holmes into a trap, then this would have been a good spot to do so – trees made for a very neat ambush. And there could be a similar ambush waiting for me.

However, if the gang had got Holmes, they probably would not chance keeping him out here in the open – they would head for shelter of some kind. And they were not likely to be expecting me to follow Holmes, since Carter must know I had been under a heavy sedative. An ambush for me was highly unlikely.

I swallowed the lump in my throat back down and determinedly walked forward into the trees, half expecting to be jumped upon every second. Once a branch snapped, and I nearly dropped the lantern in my sudden panic. I halted, listening, and then heard the angry chattering of an awakened squirrel.

Sighing in relief, I continued and in a moment found myself toward the end of the grove, in a large open space that was sunk lower in the ground. That would have been the perfect place to hide an ambush – it was not visible until one was nearly on top of it.

I took a chance and flashed the lantern's little glow around the area – revealing nothing, apparently. I sighed once more with relief. They were long gone, if they had even ever been here.

I looked round until I saw a large patch of softer earth, and then I bent down and examined it by the light of the lantern.

I was no Sherlock Holmes, but even _I_ could see there had been a fight here. The ground was torn up with what were obviously human bootprints, and even I could see that there had been at least three or four men in the area.

I straightened up, realizing my hunch had been correct. Holmes had been ambushed and – I refused to believe he was dead, for then how could that sept keep a hold over me? – and taken, where? Where could they have gone with him?

I climbed out of the copse and stood upon a higher piece of ground, looking around me in the moonlight. The expanse of moor was broken only by a small creek flowing by about a half mile away, its surface glistening in the pale silvery light, and a rather large mound covered in long grass, not too far from where I was standing.

Probably an old barrow – according to Mycroft, Carter had mentioned such to Holmes. Indeed, they were going to investigate there at some point. Perhaps…

I was startled out of my thoughts by a tiny pinprick of light glinting through the darkness in the vicinity of the barrow – someone was out there!

I had them.

Or at least I _hoped_ the light indicated the location of the anarchist group. It would be the work of a few mere minutes to find out. Carefully shading the lantern once more, I set off toward the barrow, keeping in whatever shadow I could find until the moon went behind the clouds and then breaking into a fast trot, wincing as the activity heightened the pain in my chest.

Within fifteen minutes I was close enough to the barrow to see that there was a flickering light coming from under the one low door that was typical of such burial places – I knew that the door was the only opening to the oval-shaped room within, and as such, it would not be a very smart idea for me to attempt an entrance. There were sure to be guards posted.

I hung back in the shadows, watching, doing nothing besides trying frantically to quell the panicking fear that was rearing its head again within the recesses of my mind. These men inside that burial chamber had killed my brother in cold blood over some paperwork that would convict them of high treason.

They were desperate, murderous men, and they had Holmes.

I cannot ever recall being so frightened in all my life. This was not the way things were supposed to be – I was not the one supposed to make decisions that could make or break a case! I had never before been so absolutely, completely alone – and never before had the stakes been so dangerously high! What was I to do?

I held my breath, stepping back into the shadow of the mound, as the door unexpectedly opened and revealed a quick flash of flickering torch-light as three men exited, ducking under the low doorway.

I held my breath, hoping against hope they would not hear the pounding of my heart and that the moon would not take it into its head to suddenly shine once more – I should be done for if it did!

The men walked past my hiding place without espying me, and I could hear disjointed bits of their conversation.

"Well, 'e shouldn't be much trouble, not if'n 'e's been under a sedative all day."

"Be that as it may, Clyde still said no rough stuff," another said warily, "you heard him – he needs the doctor alive _and_ coherent."

"Then why'd 'e let Carter rough up that detective, if we can't do a job on th' doctor too?"

My blood boiled with sudden anger at the realization that Holmes had suffered at the hand of these radical murderers because he had been attempting to aid me.

"Clyde don't give reasons, lad, you better learn tha' right now. Come on."

I stiffened with comprehension – they had speaking of me. Clyde had just sent three of his men after me, since they now had Holmes to bargain with. I hoped and prayed that by the time they realized I was no longer in the hotel, I would have gotten Holmes out of danger at least.

I continued to hold my breath as the men walked on, the one grumbling quietly about his leader, and a few moments afterward they disappeared into the gathering darkness.

I let my breath out noiselessly, nearly limp with relief. But I had absolutely no time to think of my own emotions. I had to cogitate a plan.

Holmes was inside the barrow, with Clyde, Carter, and I had no idea how many more men. I had one revolver, six cartridges – and I had to shoot it with my left hand, so tightly wrapped was my right.

They had the advantage of holding the only thing in the world I cared about more than my life, as well as the added advantage of self-confidence. I, on the other hand, was absolutely scared petrified.

The comparisons were not at all encouraging.

My heart was beating so rapidly that it was paining my already strained ribcage even more, and my breath was coming in short gasps. I put my head back against the grassy wall behind me and tried to clear my mind and muster up some remnant of courage. I had to think of something.

I reached in my pocket for my handkerchief, intending to mop my perspiring brow, when I heard the telltale jingling of Andrew's watch in my waistcoat pocket.

Of course!

I still had a bargaining chip – the watch! They needed me, but they needed the watch too! If I destroyed the watch they would never be able to solve the puzzle.

And they might be willing to let Holmes go if I threatened to destroy the vital clue I now held in my hand.

Yes, yes – it might just work!

It _had_ to work – it was our last hope. If I could bluff Clyde into thinking I would actually destroy the watch unless he released Holmes, then I might be able to get Holmes out of here before those men came back from finding me missing at the hotel.

I set the lantern down resolutely and opened its shutter completely, illuminating the area round the barrow's entrance, and then I pulled out my revolver, testing my grip upon it with my left hand. A little shaky, from either fear or weakness, but it would have to do.

I held the watch tightly in my wrapped right hand, and then, taking a deep breath and praying to heaven this would work, I fired a warning shot into the air over the mound.

Instantly there was a scuffling noise inside the burial chamber and the door opened a slight crack. I could not see who was standing within, but I did not care.

"Clyde!" I shouted, hoping my voice was not trembling as much as my legs were, "I know you are in there – I wish to speak with you!"

The door opened slightly, and the tall, hulking figure of the man himself looked out at me.

"Not a smart move, Doctor," he responded with an evil grin, "we've got that friend of yours in here, and I shouldn't think you would like any _more_ mischief to befall him than already has!"

"That's precisely why you will come out and speak with me, Clyde!" I said, fervently hoping he fell for this bluff.

"I dinna think so, Doctor. Perhaps you'd better come in before I decide Mr. Holmes has outlived his usefulness as leverage to gain your cooperation."

"If you touch him, Clyde, I shall blow this watch into a hundred pieces!" I shouted back, placing the muzzle of my revolver to the back of it, "and the entire puzzle will never be solved! I am willing to bargain with you!"

The man's dark-eyed face glared at me in the light from the lantern I stood beside and in the flickering light behind him, as he regarded me for a long moment. I cocked the revolver that I still held against the watch, hoping against hope that he would consent to my terms.

I was trembling, deathly afraid of what he would do, when he suddenly disappeared back into the barrow and slammed the stone door. Nonplussed, I stood there looking rather like a fool, staring at the closed door, but then just as suddenly the sept leader re-opened said door and emerged, roughly pulling with him a familiar figure that stumbled along on unsteady legs.

I swallowed hard, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, as I saw that Holmes had indeed been in a dreadful fight or else had been abused once captured – even above the muffler they had round the lower part of his face I could see bruises and dried blood on his features and his head, and he walked extremely stiffly, whether from pain or being tied up, I did not know.

As my eyes met his, I saw desperation, helplessness – and I quickly averted my gaze, for I could not allow my emotions to control this desperate gamble I was playing. I could not allow my focus to waver, or my aim either as I held the gun to the gold watch dangling from my hand.

I firmly swallowed my trepidation and met the gaze of the Scotsman without flinching and, I hoped, without revealing my near-panic.

"I am actually quite impressed, Doctor," the man said, looking at me with a scrutinizing stare, "I should not have expected you up and about so soon. Much less tracking down Carter and your dear friend here."

"You obviously did not know my brother very well, sir, or you should have realized we Watsons do not stand idly by when there is work to be done," I said, proud of the fact that, so far at least, my voice remained steady.

The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Again, I stand amazed, Doctor. And you are quite every bit as resourceful as your late brother was."

To hear him speak, one would never guess that he had engineered my brother's murder. The very cold-bloodedness of the thing unnerved me, and I took a long deep breath as Clyde went on. I still dared not look at Sherlock Holmes.

"You wish to bargain with me, Doctor?"

"I do. I have the watch and the information you so obviously need."

"And I have your friend. But I really do not think it very wise of me to let him go just yet," Clyde said, his brown eyes looking at me closely.

I realized that my hands were shaking, holding the watch and the gun unsteadily, and I knew that the fact had not escaped his keen attention. I mentally cursed my own weakness – but it was too late to turn back now. I had to go on.

"If you do not release him, I shall destroy the watch," I said, but that fear in the back of my mind began to claw its way slowly back into my consciousness despite my efforts to stop it.

"Will you really, Doctor?"

"I shall," I declared, mustering a last forceful effort of firmness into my slightly tremulous voice.

To my horror, Clyde pulled a gun from his own pocket and held it to my friend's head. He cocked the weapon, and at the sound my bravado nearly drained completely.

"Would you really destroy that watch, Doctor?" the leader asked deliberately, his eyes keenly watching my features.

I have never had much skill in bluffing, and I was never good at lying – Holmes commented on the fact more than once that dissimulation was not a talent God had given me. But I determined to pull this bluff off, for the sake of getting Holmes out of here…

Until I made the mistake of looking into my friend's eyes as he stood there with that gun barrel leveled against his head. Unable to speak, he was just looking at me, and I saw a new emotion come into his gaze that overcame the previous fear and uncertainty.

It was trust.

Complete, whole-hearted trust.

He was trusting me to bluff my way out of this mess, trusting my judgment as to how far to go with the farce. Trusting me to do the correct thing, to make the right choice.

Trusting me – trusting me with his very life hanging so precariously in the balance.

And with that realization, my nerve finally crumbled. As Clyde grinned knowingly, a wicked leer coming over his features, he tightened his finger on the trigger.

"No!"

I saw Holmes start at the desperation in my voice, and my overwrought nerves could take the strain no longer. I had lost the bluff. Lost it completely. It was over.

I lowered my gun, my hands trembling violently, and shoved the watch into my pocket.

"What information do you require of me?"

TBC…


	27. It Takes Two Men

_It takes two men to make one brother._

_-Israel Zangwill_

_"It Takes Two Men"_

_**Watson:**_

When I gave up the fight for control and I hopelessly agreed to assist Clyde in whatever he had planned, Holmes made a noise of violent protest from behind the gag, and I averted my gaze – I could not face those sad grey eyes, not now.

But I knew I also could not let my fear rule me, for we had to find a way out of this predicament. Andrew had said to me once that the only difference between cowardice and courage was that courage was a good actor – I was going to have to do some acting.

I took a deep breath, quashing my fear for the moment at least, and straightened up, holding my head high, and made my way round the two men in front of me, stooping through the low door, half-expecting to be set upon the instant I showed in the light.

But instead, the men within the mound quieted and stared at me as I entered and stepped to the side, watching them warily.

Clyde entered behind me, roughly shoving Holmes over to the side, where I could see that weasel Carter sitting atop a loose stone, grinning triumphantly at me. I restrained the hatred that swelled up within me, knowing that a false move might make Holmes suffer more.

Indeed, as I saw the way my friend collapsed heavily against the wall, I was filled with nausea at the thought that he already had done too much to try to clear up this affair. I would not do anything foolish that would further endanger him.

"Doctor, I must ask you to turn over that revolver," Clyde said matter-of-factly, "we canna have you getting any heroic ideas."

I wordlessly pulled the gun from my pocket and handed it to the man. He tossed it onto the table and then pushed me forward. I refused to look at Holmes, knowing if I did the little false courage I had summoned would flee me instantly.

The men parted to allow me passage and then effectively closed the gap behind me, gathering close to the door, so that the leader and I were left alone at the table with only Carter and my helpless friend within any proximity of us.

"Hello, Doctor," the former said with a smirk, nodding cheerfully at me across the few feet that separated us, "glad to see you could drop in on us. Too bad you weren't smart enough to think of a way to get your _friend_ here out of this –"

'My _friend_ here' had evidently had enough of the little coward's taunts, for he brought his long legs up and kicked Carter hard in the knees with such force that the man howled in pain.

I nearly laughed, but my amusement turned to anger when Carter got to his feet, swearing, and started to grasp for Holmes with a look of deep hatred.

My control finally snapped completely, and I closed the distance between us in three long strides, hauling the man off of Holmes and left-handedly throwing him against the rock wall. Carter leered at me for a moment and then rushed me in a vicious lunge.

My reaction was instinctive – Holmes had made me practice so many times that I did not even think about it.

As Carter came for me, I bent low and took the impact on my shoulders despite the protests from my strained ribcage, then neatly flipped the startled man over me to land with a jarring thud on his back on the stone floor. That was the first time I had used a Baritsu technique in that fashion, and I was rather elated with myself.

I do not know which gave me more pleasure, the pride shining in Holmes's tired eyes or the stunned pained shock in Carter's.

But I backed up defensively when Clyde started toward me with a look of warning.

"You had your terms, Clyde – I have mine as well!" I cried, my fear forgotten in my anger, "I shall help you, but instruct your hired vermin to keep their hands off him!"

The leader's brown eyes glittered for a moment at me, and then, to my surprise, a smile crossed his harsh face.

"You truly are a Watson," was his enigmatic comment. As I stared, puzzled, he went on.

"Carter, do stop that sniveling. Stand over there with the others until you can cease that whimpering. And you heard the Doctor – no more violence. Unless he proves troublesome in giving us the help we need," the man went on, that last statement being a pointed threat to me.

My fear forgotten for the moment in the heat of my anger, I glanced at Holmes, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a congratulatory grin. And that did more to nerve me than the adrenaline of the last few moments. I stepped back to the table and faced the leader of the anarchists.

And then my calmness soon faded back to fear as he began to outline the reason they had killed my brother.

Andrew? Foiling a plot to kill the Queen and several European dignitaries at the Golden Jubilee last June?

My brother, a national hero?

I had thought of him for so long as the black sheep of the family, the prodigal who had never come back and died a broken man, that the news shocked me almost more deeply than the knowledge that he had been murdered.

Andrew had stopped these men from that horrible scheme last January – and died because of it. A patriotic martyr's death – a far cry from a mere drunkard's demise.

And the realization gave me more energy to at least _pretend_ as if I possessed some courage.

"So you see, Doctor, why it is so very necessary for us to retrieve those papers your brother stole," Clyde finished, his eyes glinting with amusement at my amazed look.

"Indeed," I replied dryly, "I don't suppose you'd care for the authorities to stumble onto them."

The man snickered at my sarcasm. "You truly are Andrew's brother, Doctor – pawky humor to the last, eh?"

I winced at his choice of words, not needing the mental pictures that came flashing into my mind. I glanced back at Holmes, and I was worried to see that he was leaning against the stone wall, his eyes closed, breathing heavily. I was very worried about how badly he was injured.

My own disabilities were becoming increasingly painful, and I was finding it hard to disguise my heavy breathing. I concentrated with an effort to slow my breaths down as Clyde went on.

"So, Doctor. Here is the rest of the story. We did not find out until after Andrew's – ahem – death, that he had stolen those papers. His secret had died with him."

"And when my story came out in the _Strand Magazine_, you realized that the secret must be in the watch – the numbers in the back of it."

"Correct, Doctor. We had no desire to do you an injury at first. Our network found the man who had cleaned the watch."

"Mcallister?"

"Correct again. He, under a little _persuasion_, told us that he had found a piece of paper folded up in the watch. Being of an open-minded and material nature, he thought it might be important and had saved it, waiting for the proper price. We persuaded him to give it to us and then sent him and my man Walter after you in London. By the way, whatever happened to Walter?"

"He attacked me on the train and then tried to jump," I said matter-of-factly, "and was pulled under the wheels."

Clyde's face showed no emotion whatsoever.

"Pity," was his only comment, and again my blood ran cold at the man's callousness.

"I understand now why you need me. What did this piece of paper say?" I asked, forcing calm back into my voice.

"I have it here, Doctor."

The man turned to the table and withdrew a small folded paper. When unfolded, the thing was about three inches square, creased many times from its repeated folding. I took the paper while glancing at Holmes, who was sitting up, paying great attention to the proceedings.

I swallowed the lump in my throat as I saw my brother's familiar shaky handwriting – the drink had wrecked his penmanship in later years – and smoothed out the paper to get a good look at it. I took a deep breath and read the few words printed upon it.

_John -_

_Lilliandra._

_Regards,_

_A_

I stiffened at the word – Lilliandra. A thousand memories assailed my mind, and for a moment I was completely unaware of my surroundings as my memory went back to those rainy days we spent in childhood up in the attic of our country house, telling and writing stories together.

"I see you _do_ recognize the word, Doctor," Clyde broke into my musings, a gleam of triumph overtaking his stark features.

I looked up at the man, taking a deep breath, knowing that the memories about to resurface were not going to be completely pleasant.

"Yes, I do," I replied quietly.

"I am all attention, Doctor. And remember, do not try to play games with us – I have no personal use for Mr. Holmes and would have no qualms about ridding my hands of him," the anarchist leader warned me menacingly.

"I have no motive to lie to you, Clyde," I snapped back at him.

"Good," the man replied, unperturbed by my pitiful defiance, "pray, do go on."

I glanced at Holmes and saw that he was listening intently. Taking a deep breath, I began to explain, feeling slightly foolish about what I was going to tell them.

"Andrew was a writer, even more so than I as a boy. He was always making up stories, imaginary places, and the like," I said, shifting uneasily under Clyde's piercing gaze, "and Lilliandra was the name of the imaginary land he came up with one rainy day when we were home alone with nothing to do."

"I see. You then understand the significance of the word?"

"Yes. I was fascinated as a lad by his storytelling ability and I loved that particular tale, and so he would make up new stories about Lilliandra every rainy day thereafter, just for me," I said, my voice softening at the remembrances.

"Very touching, Doctor – but how does this help us to find those documents?" the leader demanded, his eyes flashing.

My brows knitted, and I tried to remember something about Lilliandra, something that would indicate the location of those papers. Something – something was lurking elusively out there in my memory and I could not lay my finger upon it.

"I do not have time for this, Doctor!" the man was growing angry now, "you have just one minute to remember, or I shall let Carter return to his little 'chat' with Mr. Holmes!"

My already pale face blanched, and I looked at Holmes with sudden terror – he shook his head violently at me, as if telling me to not give out any further information.

But I honestly could not even think of what Andrew's imaginary country had to do with a hiding place – I _could_ not tell them if I wanted to!

Clyde sighed as if in regret and motioned to Carter. My stomach turned into a knot, and I panicked as the little traitor started for the helpless figure of my dearest friend. My overwrought imagination was racing so fast that it almost made me dizzy – I _had_ to remember, I _had_ to, what was it? What connection was there?

Cater drove his booted foot into Holmes's ribcage, and he fell over with a muffled cry – and my nerve snapped completely.

"Stop! I shall remember – just give me a moment!" I pleaded, turning to Clyde, "I have not even heard the name Lilliandra in nearly twenty years! Please, give me a moment!"

"I do not have a moment, Doctor!" the man viciously spat at me, completely ignoring my begging, "those documents must be found, tonight!"

I closed my eyes, trembling violently, unable to watch, as Carter kicked Holmes again. For a moment I thought I should be sick, but I firmly grasped hold of my mind and forced it to do my bidding. Lilliandra. Andrew knew that I would remember its significance regarding a hiding place. What was it? What had his stories to do with a hiding place?

What had been my favorite story about the place?

_That was it!_

"Stop! I remember!" I cried desperately, my eyes flying open.

"Wait, Carter," Clyde's cool voice filled the air with an attitude of extreme boredom, and then he turned to me.

"You had better be telling the truth, Doctor – I do not take kindly to being double-crossed," he hissed with venom.

"I rather could have deduced that for myself, seeing that you killed my brother for doing so!" I snapped back at him. "Now listen to me!"

The man's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing and I plunged into the story.

"My favorite story Andrew told about the land of Lilliandra was about a group of pirates," I said, my face turning red at having to go into all this boyhood romanticism, "and – and in that story, Andrew had them hide their wealth in an old crypt, there on the island of Lilliandra."

Clyde's eyes took on a gleam of triumph.

"He must have meant that as the clue that only I would pick up on – my favorite story, and he hid the papers somewhere – somewhere in a graveyard. He must have meant the one here, outside of Rathclythe," I whispered.

I hung my head, leaning against the table with the staggering knowledge that I had just given these men the information they needed to undo everything my brother had given his life for.

I heard the leader give a cackle of triumph.

"All right, Doctor, hand over that watch now," he said, extending a large hand.

I wordlessly handed the timepiece to him, my face red with shame. Clyde prized off the back of the watch and then handed it to me.

"The numbers now, Doctor. What is their significance?"

"I think you should be halfway intelligent enough to deduce that for yourself," I snapped angrily, my nerves completely shot to pieces after all this.

I had no warning to dodge the vicious backhand that the leader sent my way, and I staggered against the table under the impact of the blow.

"You are trying my limits, Watson," he hissed, "you knew the way your brother thought – _NOW_, out with it!"

I took the watch, trying to clear my blurred vision, and scrutinized the four numbers – 25, 6, 22, 79.

Once again I was reminded of my boyhood story – Andrew had used the same method for his pirate gang to hide their treasure in the cemetery on Lilliandra. I had completely forgotten about the code until now – so buried had those childhood memories been in my mind. I had not even recalled those remembrances in so long, so very long…

But even as I mused, the leader's patience with me was wearing thin and I was suddenly grasped by the collar in a choking grip of iron, being yanked up close to the man's red face.

"Doctor, I've had it with you – what are the numbers for?" he hissed in my face, towering over me.

I was gasping for breath, feeling the strain in my lungs and ribcage, and only just managed to stammer out what he wanted to hear.

"First number – is – the row of the gravestones – in the yard, " I choked, struggling frantically to catch even a small breath of oxygen.

At my words the man released me, and I staggered against the table, coughing violently from deep within my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Holmes watching me worriedly, but I dared not look at him.

"Go on," the man before me ordered.

"The second, of course, is – the number – of the crypt within the row," I whispered, finally being able to draw a deep breath.

"And the last two?"

"Corroboration to know we have the right stone. The years – of birth and death," I gasped, the words wheezing painfully through my lungs.

A murderous gleam of mad triumph flashed over the man's features, and I felt sick and cold at the knowledge of what I had just done. I was more of a traitor than Carter – I had just destroyed all the work that my brother had died to accomplish. The fact that I was doing it to save Holmes's life did not change my guilt in the matter.

"Get over there with your friend, Doctor," Clyde growled, shoving me roughly in Holmes's direction and shouting to his men to gather back round the table.

Carter glared at me as he passed, but he did not attempt to do anything to me as I stumbled over to slump down next to Holmes. My friend's eyes were filled with worry as he looked at me.

I glanced over to the knot of men gathered round the table and saw that they were all busily engaged. So I reached over and gently removed the muffler from round his face.

"Are you all right?" he gasped, as soon as his mouth was free.

I nearly smiled, for he had barely beat me to the same question. But I was too ashamed of what I had done to smile, and I hid my embarrassment by untying his hands.

"Holmes, I – I'm sorry," I whispered, my face flushing once more with shame, "I never _have_ been good at bluffing."

"My dear Watson," he said softly, "you are an honest man, and a loyal one – and both qualities are far more invaluable than the ability to lie convincingly."

I could not look at him and instead studied the cracks in the stone floor as he rubbed his wrists, trying to restore circulation.

"Watson, we are not beaten yet," I heard him say quietly.

"No?" I asked, turning back to him.

"Where is Mycroft, and how did you come here by yourself?"

"I realized not long after you left that Carter was false, Mycroft wanted us to go straight to convince Tavish of the danger and get help. I knew we did not have time for that, and so I acted as if I were unfit to go with him. I told him to leave me in the hotel with the gun and so he did, reluctantly," I told Holmes.

"Then he and the police should be on their way at least," Holmes said, "they might be able to trace us here and then to the cemetery."

"Perhaps," I said despondently.

"But we cannot count upon that," he went on, his brow furrowing with thought, "we shall have to devise a plan of our own."

"How can we?" I asked, gesturing to the group of anarchists, "this is hopeless, Holmes! And it is all due to the fact that I was so stupid. If I had remembered that number code that Andrew came up with –"

"Watson, that was twenty years ago! How could you have possibly remembered?"

"Or if I had been smart enough to get you out of here before I had to tell everything I knew," I said, casting my gaze downward again in shame, "if I were not such a frightened, hopeless coward –"

"That is enough, Watson!" I started at the unusual fierceness of the man's tone, and I stared at him. My friend's eyes were flashing with indignation.

"You are the furthest thing from a coward I have ever encountered in my life, Watson! Do not _ever_ let me hear you speak such a lie again!"

I glared at his vehemence for a moment, but I was unable to retain my scowl for long. And a few seconds later, I relaxed just slightly and gave him a small smile.

He was about to say something more when he stiffened, looking past me, and I turned to see as well. Clyde had pocketed my revolver and stacked up the papers on the table, and the men were beginning to disperse.

I shuddered – we were about to finish this dreadful mess I had gotten us into.

Holmes's firm hand on my arm gave me a kind of quiet fortitude, however, and when the men started toward us, I took a deep breath and steeled myself, pushing my fear once more to the back of my mind – I had to be strong.

The evening's horrors were not yet over. Not by a long shot.


	28. No Fortress Is So Strong

_When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life._

_-Antisthenes_

_"No Fortress Is So Strong"_

_**Watson:**_

As the men began to disperse from round the table, Holmes staggered to his feet and gently helped me up so that we were together facing Clyde as he came round to meet us.

The anarchist did not appear to be annoyed that I had taken the liberty of releasing Holmes, but he did instruct Carter and the man called Thomas to tie our hands behind our backs to prevent our being able to run far.

I could not restrain a gasp of pain as my still-sprained wrist was roughly secured in that fashion, and Holmes turned a very concerned look toward me, his eyes flashing with anger. I took a deep breath and managed a shaky smile at him.

He returned to me a proud look of encouragement before turning his furious gaze back to Clyde. The man stepped over to me, his great height towering over my upturned face. I swallowed hard, willing my features to remain composed and calm – not an easy task.

_The only difference between cowardice and courage is that courage is a good actor, John._ My brother's words rang through my head, and I determined that I should do as good a performance as any man ever could. When the anarchist leader leaned into my face, a leering grin on his features, I refused to step backward, scared though I was.

"You have been very helpful, Doctor. Now, we shall see if you were indeed telling us the truth," the man said, his menacing tone sending a shiver down my back, "if you were not playing straight, then we will have some very serious talking to do together after we reach the graveyard."

I glared at him with as much spirit as I could muster. "I have already told you, I have no motive for lying to you!"

"I would certainly hope so, for your sake, Doctor, and for Mr. Holmes's."

With that, the man motioned Carter and the giant brute Thomas to push Holmes and me out ahead of them through the door.

"Watson," I heard Holmes's low whisper.

"Yes?"

I was prepared for him to instruct me as to whatever plan he might have concocted, or to tell me what we needed to do to play for time. But the two simple words he uttered were an unexpected comfort.

"Well done."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my overactive imagination, and we were roughly shoved outside into the chill night air. As the bracing wind struck us with force, I broke into another cough, the movement sending yet another sharp flash of pain through my body.

"'Ere, now, Doctor, we canna have ye gettin' sick, now," Thomas said with patently false concern, "tha'd nae do at all."

"When I wish to hear artificial platitudes of sympathy from you, I shall ask for them," I gasped in irritation, "until then, I should take it kindly if you would keep your inane opinions to yourself!"

Holmes's eyebrows had shot heavenward and he grinned at me, although his eyes held concern. I was rather proud of myself for getting enough of a grip on my fear as to be able to put up a front at least, and I was almost smiling myself.

But suddenly the man I had antagonized yanked hard on my elbow, pulling dreadfully on that sprained wrist, to lead me over to where the leader stood in the shadows of the mound. I gasped as pain shot up my arm, but the sound only served to further give pleasure to the Scotchman as he pushed me up to Clyde.

"All right, Thomas. You and Carter keep John and his friend up here close to me – if something goes wrong, I may need a couple of hostages," the man said, his beady gaze resting upon Holmes and myself.

I gulped down a chill of fear. I almost hoped Mycroft and the police did _not_ find us – I had no desire to become more of a pawn in this game than I was already.

After giving out instructions to the six men who were with us, Clyde set off carrying my dark lantern, and without ceremony Carter and Thomas shoved Holmes and me along behind him.

The moon was noticeably absent from the scene, and there was no light save that one lantern – obviously for the purpose of not being spotted. These men knew the country well, but Holmes and I did not – and that ignorance turned it into one of the worst hours of my life.

We stumbled along blindly, unable to keep our equilibrium with our hands tied so behind us, and I for one was already, after only fifteen minutes, noticing that my breathing was becoming labored and I was starting to wheeze.

Holmes asked me quietly if I wanted him to try a diversion and give me a chance to rest, but I refused, knowing that he would be hurt in the process.

We walked along in silence for the most part, for when one of us tried to speak Carter or Thomas would find some painful way of persuading us that it was not worth the effort.

After we had been walking for over a half hour, I was breathing very heavily, struggling to control the pain that was shooting across my chest from the strenuous exercise.

"Watson?" I heard Holmes whisper.

I could not catch my breath enough to answer him.

"Watson! Are you all right?"

"Yes," I gasped – just as I tripped over what I assumed was a tree root spreading form the nearby grove and went skidding on the ground with a moan as I jarred my fractured ribcage.

"'Ere, now, none o' tha'," Thomas growled, hauling me to my feet again, ignoring my cry of pain as he jerked once again on my bad arm.

I was trying too hard to catch my breath to do anything else, but Holmes was not so inhibited. I moaned inwardly as I knew his vociferous objections were only going to earn him more abuse.

"For the love of heaven, man, have you no humanity?" Holmes's voice was a hiss of barely controlled rage.

"I'll have none of your lip, Holmes," Carter spat, giving Holmes a rough shove, "that'll be quite enough out of you!"

"All right, I've had quite enough of you, you little Judas!" Holmes growled, turning round and lashing out with a long leg to knock Carter's feet out from under him.

"Holmes, stop it!" I gasped, knowing he was going to regret his outburst.

"Why, you –" Carter got up, cursing violently, and landed a vicious blow to Holmes's face, sending my helpless friend crashing to the ground.

The little coward glared at Holmes for a moment and then, snatching a nearby tree branch, started toward the detective's head – I could not stand by and watch this.

I took two steps and was standing over Holmes.

"Clyde! We need assistance back here!" I shouted, bracing myself for the blow of that limb.

But it never fell – Carter froze in fear as I quite loudly summoned the group's leader.

As Clyde took a few quick, angry steps back toward us, Thomas muttered something and hastily backed away from Holmes, Carter, and myself.

The sept leader opened the shade of the lantern to reveal me, defiantly standing over Holmes, who was still stunned from Carter's blow, and the weasel himself, holding a tree branch, caught like a scared rabbit in a trap.

"Carter, you little imbecile!" the man snarled, grabbing his underling and shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat, "I told you that was enough! If we are going to get rid of them and have it look like an accident, they cannot look like they've been through a fight!"

I felt the color drain from my face at his words – they were not planning to turn Holmes loose in exchange for my help after all. They had planned all along to kill us both, like they had killed my brother.

That horrid realization drowned out any amusement I might have had at seeing Carter so cringing before this cold-blooded villain.

"So help me, Carter, this is the second time tonight you've disobeyed my orders! If it happens again, you shall be punished in the usual fashion!" Clyde barked, his face a mask of rage.

The man dropped the terrified Carter, who collapsed like a limp rag, and I knelt beside Sherlock Holmes.

"Get up, Watson," I heard him mutter, "don't draw any more attention to yourself."

I obeyed him, as I always did, and staggered back up, to turn and see Clyde looking at me strangely, regarding me with a scrutinizing gaze that was very, very unnerving. I heard Holmes struggling to his feet behind me, but I continued to meet the look of the man before me.

Finally, he spoke. "I was wrong about one thing, Doctor."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he replied, "I once was guilty of thinking you were as nervy as your brother."

I glared at the man, and his harsh features twisted into a smile. "But I was wrong – you might just have _more_ fortitude than Andrew did in the face of menace."

And with that, he shot Carter a very vicious warning glare and spun on his heel, directing us all to move onward.

Behind me I heard Sherlock Holmes snort.

"I could have told him _that_ elementary deduction long ago!"

I chuckled, for the first time that night, despite the knowledge that Holmes and I were dead men and despite the fact that my chest was sending sharp pains traveling throughout my body.

As Thomas warily pushed us forward, not stopping to help up Carter, I lowered my voice.

"Did you hear –"

"Yes, I did, Watson. But we are not dead yet," he whispered back encouragingly.

"No, but we're bloody well close," I muttered under my breath, tripping once more over something in the darkness. I somehow managed to keep my balance and kept moving.

I could now see in the distance a glow in the sky, indicating we were nearing Rathclythe – it was not much farther to the graveyard. I shivered at the thought of entering that awful place where my brother was buried yet again – and especially at midnight!

I must have instinctively moved closer to Holmes, for he elbowed me gently.

"Steady on, Watson. It is no different than it is in the daylight," he said softly, as always discerning the direction of my thoughts.

"I – I know that," I protested, ashamed of my tremulous voice.

"But it doesn't help, does it?" he returned understandingly.

"No," I whispered hoarsely.

My labored breathing had become even more rapid, and he could tell by it that I was absolutely terrified. The thought of entering that graveyard and searching through an old crypt – then having to fight for our lives within a matter of minutes afterwards – yes, yes, I was scared half out of my wits.

"Watson," I heard Holmes's quiet voice, so low that no one else could have heard us. "Did you elder brother never tell you that being afraid is perfectly normal?"

I started at the unexpected question, and after stifling another cough, I answered him.

"Yes, he did," I replied, remembering the time I had been afraid to walk across a frozen river – I could not swim and I was scared to death that the ice would snap under me.

"He was right on that count, as well, old chap. Believe him."

"I – I shall try," I gasped as another cough racked my already strained ribs. A muffled cry of pain escaped my lips as the agony shot through my chest once again.

"Easy, Watson. We – we must be nearly there," Holmes said encouragingly. I cleared my throat and then nodded; we were indeed almost to the cemetery.

The next half hour would tell the tale – we might not even be alive at this time an hour from now.

_**Holmes:**_

My eyes had adjusted to the deep blackness of the Scottish moor at midnight only enough to discern dark shadows around me. I did not even realize Watson had moved closer to me until he accidentally stumbled against me in the darkness.

I could tell from the way his already too shallow breathing had quickened upon the sight of the glow of Rathclythe's night lights in the dark sky in front of us that he was beginning to realize just where we were headed. He was going to have to face his brother's grave once more – this time at midnight and with a group of murderous anarchists.

That would have been a task that might have daunted even my iron nerve, and Watson is much more sensitive than I. I tried to encourage him, but I could tell he was suffering too greatly, either emotionally or physically, to really listen to me.

I myself was growing rather nervous, not knowing what lay before us, and I was also becoming increasingly worried about Watson – his labored breathing and his occasional strangled cries of pain were becoming more frequent than when we had first started. It was only this afternoon that I had forced him to rest because I was deathly scared he would suffer a dreadful relapse.

Yes, I was afraid – did Watson really think that he was the only one in this case who was scared? I cannot ever recall being so frightened in my life as that night in Baker Street when he collapsed in the hall, as on the train when I heard that commotion going on in our compartment, back in the hotel when those thugs had slammed him against the wall – yes, everyone feels fear at some point in one's life.

Why should his being afraid bother him so?

I had no time to dwell on these philosophical thoughts, however – I had to start thinking, and thinking clearly. As soon as the sept found the papers Andrew had hidden, they would have no further reason to keep us alive. In less than an hour, we should be fighting for our lives.

Yes, indeed – every man was afraid at some point.

Watson stumbled over something in the road and nearly went down again for the dozenth time, and I caught my breath – he really could not stand much more jarring. But by a miracle of Providence he kept his balance and continued doggedly onward after prodding from the tall thug behind him.

Carter had been noticeably subdued after Watson had gotten Clyde to stop him from braining me with that tree branch earlier – and that gave me an idea.

Clyde already was on his last shred of patience with the little weasel. If I could instigate another fight with Carter, then possibly Clyde would get so irritated that he would focus his attention on Carter, and not us – we might then be able to escape.

Carter would likely suffer harshly at Clyde's hands for it, but that honestly did not even twinge my conscience in the least.

"Watson," I whispered.

After a hoarse couple of breaths, I heard his answering gasp.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"When we get there, stick as close to me as you can."

"I had already planned on it," he whispered dryly, and I nearly laughed – indeed, pawky humor to the last.

"I have some glimmering of a plan," I said softly, "so be ready whenever I give the signal."

"Right," he gasped, coughing again.

The harsh sound made me wince in sympathy. Whatever did happen, it could not involve a lot of physical activity, for Watson would not be of much aid in a good fight.

Within the quarter hour, we had reached the iron gate of the cemetery. Beside me, I felt Watson shiver – how I wished my hands were not tied so that I could offer support! But he followed Clyde into the place without a murmur and without cringing, and I was immensely proud of him.

Once inside, the leader pulled Andrew's watch from his pocket and opened the lantern's shield to cast the light onto the timepiece.

"Twenty-five," he said, beginning to count off the rows of stones. We followed behind him, and I could see already that the twenty-fifth row would have to be back in those oldest of crypts toward the back of the small graveyard.

"Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Now."

"Six," Watson spoke up breathlessly, startling me with his good memory. Clyde walked along the row until he reached the sixth stone.

"What were the last two numbers?"

"22 and 79, Doctor. Now, let us see," the man said, shining the lantern on the placard of the crypt. We all read the inscription.

_Alice Jean Scott, age 55 years_

_1803-1858_

My stomach plummeted – that was not right – this was not the correct location! Something had gone wrong!

My fear was tripled when Clyde turned to Watson, whose eyes had grown round in fright, and grabbed his collar as he had earlier, partially choking him.

I was helpless, watching my best friend be abused by this man, when Watson unexpectedly kicked the man hard in the shin, and he released him with a howl. Watson staggered backward into me, coughing and gasping, and as Clyde straightened up my friend cleared his throat and snapped out a terse, strained sentence.

"You might try counting from the other end of the row before you go round throttling people," he spat with spirit, coughing once more.

Of course – that was why there had been two corroborating date numbers, because one could count from either end of the row of graves!

I let out my breath with a hiss of relief, and I saw the fury fade slightly from Clyde's face. Watson heaved a sigh as the leader started off toward the other end of the stone crypts, and then we followed.

Clyde counted six and once more held the light on the stone.

_John Ian Lantry_

_1822-1879_

_God rest his soul._

"That is it," Watson said softly, "that was why he chose this one – Lantry was the name of one of the characters in his stories. And John is my first name. That's why he picked this one for me to find."

The relief I felt at finding we had actually discovered the thing was short-lived as Clyde pushed us both aside into the stone wall of the next crypt and ordered Carter to watch us closely while the men began to examine the stone edifice to find its secret.

I had landed rather hard on the corner of the next crypt, and at feeling how sharp the stone edge was, I felt that I might just be able to free my hands – they had not done an overly tight job, and I just might manage it.

"Keep him talking," I whispered to Watson, and he nodded nervously.

"Well, gentlemen, this appears to be your final round," Carter stated, twirling the gun he held around his forefinger carelessly.

"A clichéd statement worthy of one of my _Strand_ memoirs," Watson scoffed, and I grinned. I was rubbing my hands as furiously as possible against the rough stone's edge, scraping all the skin off my knuckles in the process.

"I must remember to put that in the story, once we get back to London."

"You amuse me, Doctor. You really think that you are going to get back to London? Talk of overconfidence!"

"You seem to be the expert on that quality, so pray enlighten me," my friend snapped back.

I had one strand of rope severed – if I could get two more I could within a few seconds free myself of the last one. I redoubled my efforts, realizing from the raised voices at the next crypt that we were fast running out of time.

I flinched and gritted my teeth in anger when Carter struck Watson hard across the face for his retort, and I vowed if I got the chance I should kill that man with my bare hands, British law or no British law. He deserved to die a traitor's painful death.

Watson took the blow without a sound, but his hazel eyes flashed fire. "You certainly are a _brave_ man, Carter – I don't think I've ever seen you strike a man unless he is restrained in some way!" he spat at the sneaking little weasel.

I had only one more strand to go – one more – just one –

We were interrupted by a shout of triumph from the other crypt. Watson shot me a frantic, frightened look, and I sawed desperately at that one stubborn strand of rope – we were going to be fighting for our lives in a matter of moments, for they obviously had found the papers!

As Carter turned his gaze to the other direction, the rope gave way at last, and I saw a few yards away the rest of the gang was starting towards us.

"Play along with me," I whispered to Watson, and then without looking to see if he heard me, I jumped for Carter, tackling him just below the knees.

He shrieked like a startled girl, and I heard the gun drop to the ground. Carter scrambled for it, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Watson brace himself against the stone and kick it hard out of the way – his rugby skill sending the weapon flying a good twenty feet.

I had hoped to render the man useless and then try to run for it with Watson, but it had taken me too long to saw through the ropes. We were going to have to get another plan.

I had barely landed a punch when I was hauled off of the screaming little blighter and slammed up against the stone beside Watson.

"Clyde, you said that this man was not to lay a hand on him," Watson snapped fiercely before I could catch my breath enough to speak, "did you not?"

"Carter –" the leader snarled viciously, glaring at the man.

"I didn't do anythin'!" the man whined frantically.

"You call untying Holmes just so that you could beat him to a pulp _nothing_?" Watson cried, and I wondered when I had ever had the idea that dissimulation was not one of his virtues.

"Carter! I told you that was your last warning with the rough stuff!"

"You're – you're going to listen to him instead of me?" the man whimpered, cowering from the wrath of the sept leader.

"Yes," the man growled, "I'd believe a Watson over the likes of you any day of the week!"

If the situation had not been so grave, I should have laughed, but my amusement died when I was grabbed roughly and my hands securely retied as they had been before.

The now-petrified little Carter was also summarily bound and shoved over beside us. The towering height of the anarchist leader loomed over us, brandishing a small leather portfolio.

"Well, gentlemen, we now have all the evidence Andrew stole from us, with your help, Doctor. I am dreadfully sorry to end this acquaintanceship, but I am very afraid that you all are going to meet with a rather dreadful – _accident_ – on your way back to freedom."

TBC…


	29. Perish Together as Fools

"We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools." - Martin Luther King Jr.

Chapter 29: "Perish Together as Fools"

_**Watson:**_

Carter quivered next to me, his breathing fast and panicked. Holmes was on my other side ignoring him completely, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed as he tried to think.

We were waiting while Clyde directed his men in covering the shallow patch of earth that they had disturbed at the foot of the grave.

To think that the cursed documents had been in this yard the entire time…not a foot below the surface as Holmes and I had visited Andrew's grave closer to the front of the cemetery!

In only a few moments they would finish and take us, like Andrew, to die 'accidentally'. Only Mycroft would be suspicious…but he would never be able to prove it. After all our efforts and all our struggles it was to end, here in this tiny, relatively unknown village in Scotland.

Never again would we see Baker Street or Mrs. Hudson, who in truth had become quite close to us and I believe fond of Holmes, whom she treated more like a precocious son than a tenant.

I wondered briefly if Holmes had any family to speak of save his brother. How would they react to his death? Would Mycroft tell them?

I had no close relatives…besides Holmes I was genuinely alone in the world…

A terrible thought struck my mind, and I recalled the very idea that had been running through my head at the commencement of this nightmare.

Mary.

Gentle, beautiful Mary, my wife to be, would never learn the true circumstances of my death. She would believe that I had forgotten her…had sacrificed my life on a dangerous mission with Holmes without even a qualm for her feelings.

I would never be able to call her my wife, never hold her, never love her. Never make a home or have children with her.

The truth of this rang coldly through my head and my heart ached sharply. Now more than ever I wanted all that – I wanted it almost more than anything…I would regret it as sharply as the loss of Holmes himself, and the futile end of his brilliant career and marvelous mind.

It could not be…I would not let that happen.

I pulled at the ropes at my hands, sharply ignoring the ache in my wrist….

My wrist.

Oh heavens, I was an imbecile! The bandaging!

Holmes had not stirred beside me, but his eyes were now fixed on the shadowy forms before us. Clyde had opened the folder and was examining the papers, smiling in triumph. Carter's eyes were closed and he was pleading under his breath to every god under the sun.

I used my numb fingers to pry at the bandages and felt them shift, they had made my wrist nearly a centimeter or two thicker…it would work. It _had _to work.

I began to work quickly, feeling the soft material readily giving way. In just a moment, I should be free...

Clyde was shuffling the papers back together, his expression satisfied. The rest of the men were gathered around him as he began to speak and gesture, obviously quite pleased with himself.

There was only one guard beside us…perhaps with Holmes' help…

Sweat began to surface on my hands with my efforts…but I had the bandaging loose now…it hung limply around my wrist, damaged through the rough handling and my own efforts. I now tried to tug the swollen appendage through the ropes, biting down on my tongue to stifle the groans that rose to my lips as it panged sharply.

Holmes had grown very tense beside me, he was casting his eyes about us, his gaze becoming desperate.

Clyde was done speaking…he turned back towards us, his followers behind him.

But then my heart leapt in exhilaration as my sweat-soaked wrist suddenly popped free! Ignoring the stiffness of my arms I turned and plowed my left fist into the man who had been standing guard over us. Holmes stared in astonishment; then, recovering with remarkable quickness, he plowed into the man, knocking him over and falling atop him.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Carter bent and seized a knife from the man's belt, beginning to work at the ropes.

Clyde and his men shouted and started for us.

I snatched up our guard's gun, pulled Holmes roughly to his feet, and all three of us began to sprint toward the entrance of the yard, united in the common cause of survival.

Shots rang around us, nicking the headstones and sending chips of granite flying. I thanked Providence for the blessed darkness and continued.

We had just made it out of the yard when Holmes stumbled suddenly and fell, still unbalanced because of his bound arms.

I took hold of Carter's arm pulling him to a stop and snatched the knife from his hands, severing the ropes.

"Holmes?" I managed to gasp though my chest ached and every breath was a battle.

His answer was to surge to his feet and pull me to mine, his arm steadying me as we began to run again.

Carter followed us, as though afraid of being left alone. Holmes took the lead now, drawing ahead and pulling me with him as my strength began to flag dramatically. I could not keep up this pace.

Finally as an especially sharp stab ran through my chest I stopped with a moan, nearly doubling over and pulling Holmes to a halt. I clutched my ribs, and met my friend's desperate gaze.

"Holmes…" I gasped in despair, I couldn't run anymore. "I – I can't…"

My friend shot an anxious glance at the pursuit and then at the trees that surrounded us.

He sucked in his breath in surprise or satisfaction and drew me over to a stand of ash trees that were embedded heavily in undergrowth.

Yet again I had reason to marvel at his incredible eyesight as he pushed me down into a small hollow below the branches and bushes…

It was not an ideal hiding place, but it would have to do.

Holmes left me and a moment later returned with Carter, whom he shoved down beside me before squatting himself.

We sat for several moments in silence before Holmes suddenly grew rigid.

"Holmes?"

One of his thin hands placed itself over my mouth, warning me to silence. And in another minute I knew why as a light and several heavy pairs of boots passed by us.

"They could nae possibly have vanished so quickly…they don't know the country."

Carter whimpered slightly and I saw Holmes clamp his free hand on the back of the coward's neck in warning… the voices continued.

"Do you think I care, Sommers? Their escape could be just as damaging as the documents!"

Clyde's voice, harsh with menace, sent a shiver down my spine, but I stayed quiet behind Holmes's hand.

"I want them found now…I do not tolerate failure or betrayal from my men."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Clyde."

In another instant they had passed us and their conversation was replaced by the footsteps of the others. More lights passed…my legs grew cramped with this sudden inactivity. I felt Holmes's hand quiver with tension.

And then they were gone.

The detective released his grip, allowing me to fold forward onto the muddy ground, breathing heavily, reveling in the solid feel of the earth…at its stillness.

Holmes had evidently also released Carter for the traitor whimpered again and spoke in a voice more suited to a young child. His whining voice grated on my nerves and throbbed in my head as I lay on the cold ground, trying to breath without wheezing.

"They're gonnae kill us…there's nothing we can do…they'll find us!"

"They will if you don't be _quiet!"_ Holmes spat at him, relaxing himself. He turned me onto my back and ran his hands gently over my ribcage…feeling the bones.

Sherlock Holmes was by no means a medical doctor, but among other things he had a strong knowledge of anatomy. And what he found evidently did not please him, for he sighed heavily and pulled my coat tighter around me.

"Forgive me, Watson, we must go on." He said quietly, rising to his feet and drawing me up with him, eliciting another sharp ache and a groan from me. Carter scrambled up as well and prepared to follow.

Holmes shot him a disgusted look but said nothing – it was better if he came with us, for leaving him behind would only leave a trail and a possible witness to point out the direction of our escape.

My friend led the way further into the trees at a mercifully slower rate than before. The sounds of pursuit still followed us but they were dim, the light of the dark lantern faint and distant…and after a while they faded altogether.

"Have – have we lost them?" I gasped, wishing desperately for another halt, no matter how brief.

Holmes looked behind us again at the empty darkness. "Not for long…they'll spread out soon to cover more ground. Are you all right, Watson?"

"I – I've been better."

Holmes laughed dryly and at long last stopped allowing me to sink to the ground for a second time.

My friend kept to his feet, his breathing under better control now, he kept his eyes warily on the way we had come.

"Mycroft must be on his way by now…how long has it been, Watson?"

I shook my head, which was spinning so badly I was growing dizzy, "I – I can't even see my own hand properly, Holmes, let alone the face of my watch."

Holmes smiled grimly and pulled his own timepiece out of his pocket. "It is nearly ten o'clock."

"Then it has been more than two hours," I said, stiffly sitting up so I could see about us better.

Holmes crouched beside one of the trees, the moonlight coloring and shadowing his face oddly. "Unless Tavish is a complete idiot, my brother will have convinced him by now."

"Tavish?" Carter whispered from where he sat not four feet away.

I shifted away from him and Holmes turned his glare on him once again.

"Oh yes, Carter…Tavish and his men should be here shortly, along with one of the most influential men in the government. Say goodbye to your twisted concepts and tyrannical sept. Neither will survive this night, no matter what fates befall us…Clyde is finished…and so are you."

Carter swallowed and scooted back between his trees as though hopeful he could vanish into the shadows they cast. I almost wished he would vanish – I was growing weary of the little blighter.

Holmes smirked at Carter's obvious discomfort and turned his head to continue his watch.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against a pine. It was so very close to being over, and I was so very, very tired…surely Mycroft and the police were on their way. This wait was the last stretch I was certain…the last proverbial darkness before the dawn.

All we had to do was wait…help would come. It had to. Having lasted this long surely we could survive till the end.

_**Holmes:**_

Miraculously, they had not found us thus far…but we were not out of the water yet. We should have to move on in the near future.

I glanced at Watson, a stab of worry creasing my face, hating the idea. The poor chap had already gone beyond the normal bounds of a man in his condition. It was evident that every effort was costing him, and he was already exhausted. He needed rest and warmth and another sedative, though I doubted I would be able to persuade him to take it after my betrayal of earlier.

I hated to think of what further damage had been caused to his ribs and wrist, now that it lacked any support…

I smiled, recalling my surprise and elation at my realization that he had slipped free of the bandaging. Brilliant, resourceful Watson - I should never get his limits, no matter how long I knew him.

I sobered as my friend burst into another round of coughing, nearly doubling over with a choked cry of pain, shivering in the chill air.

Stubborn was another word to describe my friend…the fool was dressed only in a jacket and that along with his other clothes had grown damp with sweat. I took off my Inverness and put it gently over him.

Much to my alarm, he did not object – proof of the level of pain he was in.

I sighed and tried again to concentrate on the way we had come, poised to hear any sound or notice any sign of pursuit…there was nothing yet.

Where in heaven's name was Mycroft?

A sudden sound made me start but it had come from behind us rather than in front. I whirled around to see Watson sitting quite erect and alert, his eyes fixed in a frightened stare on Carter.

The Scotsman was smiling, and holding the revolver that Watson had set beside him on the ground.

I cursed myself mentally - of course Watson was far too exhausted to be expected to keep an eye on the weasel…I should have watched him more carefully. I stepped forward, trying to put myself between them.

"Don't, Mr. Holmes," he said, cocking the gun to make his point.

"Carter, don't be an idiot…you are already facing a prison sentence."

"Oh, much more than that, Mr. Holmes. Do you really think your government would let me walk free after all this? No, I'm taking my chances now."

"If you leave now you will be caught by the sept," I said, my voice soft and steady, a tone one would use to calm a frantic dog. "Come with us, and I may be able to speak for you in court."

Carter laughed, a twisted smile coming over his face, "That's a good one, Mr. Holmes, but I'm no idiot, and I have no desire to languish in a prison cell…but you may be of use to me yet."

And with that, he aimed the gun and fired point-blank.

I was thrown backward as a great force tore my leg out from under me and I struck the damp, cold soil with a startled half-cry. A wave of fire washed over me spreading out from the growing stain, and I shuddered and groaned, clutching at it.

I vaguely heard shouting and I was aware of steady hands pushing my shoulders back onto the ground.

"Holmes, lie still. Lie still - don't move!" The voice of my dear Watson quavered on the edge of panic and I watched under half-shut lids as he rose to his feet, his face crimson with rage.

"YOU FIEND!"

I heard Carter chuckle. "I think I should get away from the authorities _and_ the sept quite easily now with you two to distract them."

"CARTER, I SHALL KILL YOU!"

Never before had I heard such a tone from Watson's lips. It was so out of character, so bloodthirsty and angry that I could not repress a shiver.

"No, Doctor, you will not - or I shall shoot you as well…and you are already too weak to assist Mr. Holmes as it is. Pity, really…such a promising career and it ends unsung by even his chronicler. If I were you, Watson, I would run – then perhaps you shall live to tell the world of his ignominious death."

"I will find you, Carter, I do not care how long it takes…I shall hunt you down and I shall not rest until I have put a bullet in your head!"

Carter laughed and I knew from his voice that there was a sneer on his face. "But not now, eh Doctor? You won't leave your friend…not the good, noble Watson. Stay with him then…and give Mr. Clyde my regards."

His footsteps announced his departure, leaving us alone in the darkness, now weaponless. Watson stood helplessly beside me, shaking with exhaustion and fury, glaring after the departing man.

The shock of the wound was wearing off and another wave of pain washed over me. Never had I felt such a sensation before…such a deep and intense agony. I felt sick and agitated; I wanted to vanish into the cold and darkness.

I could do neither, I could only gasp helplessly and roll onto my side clutching the appendage, trying to curl myself around the hurt.

"Holmes." Watson was at my side in an instant, his hands pressing me down a second time. "I'm here, let me see."

"Watson." I clutched at his arm, trying to steady myself.

"I'm here, Holmes." He repeated, pushing me gently back as his medical instincts took control. I felt him rip open the leg of my trousers and gently probe the wound.

He sighed shakily, and began to remove various articles of clothing.

"The bullet went through, and the bone is intact…you'll be all right." He pressed his cap around the wound and began to tie it tightly with his scarf.

I yelped but then bit down on my tongue, remembering. We could not afford to be heard, not after…

The shot.

Carter had fired a shot!

"Watson!" I gasped, using his sleeve to pull myself up.

"Don't move, Holmes, the blood loss…"

"He fired a shot, Watson! They can't have missed that!"

Watson froze, and he looked into my face, his own a mask of terror.

"Holmes, I – I cannot carry you!"

"Never mind that – get out of here!"

Watson's grip on my arm was sudden and painful, and his face had turned rigid.

"Don't you_ ever,_ and I mean _ever,_ suggest such a thing, Holmes…don't even say it." His voice was as hard as his expression and brooked no argument.

So I gave none…and I was shamefully grateful that he would not leave me so easily.

"We cannot stay here, Watson."

"No we cannot…but we cannot run, either," he said, gazing out over the fields around us. Then his gaze stopped and he smiled slightly. "So we shall hide."

And my extraordinary friend carefully lifted me and pulled my arm around his shoulders, holding it as tightly as he was able with his right wrist, his left arm around my waist. Slowly he rose to his feet, giving me time to adjust my weight.

The leg bore my weight though every step sent another ripple of pain from the torn muscle and tissue. I tried to repress my groans and hobbled along as Watson slowly led me forward.

Now as I look back on that situation I am struck by the hopelessness of it, but I am also in awe of my friend.

Under those circumstances, with any other individual, I believe I should have given up in defeat…but not with Watson. There is a quality about my friend that I have often sensed but have never before been able to name.

It is this quality which gives me the confidence to stroll casually into dangerous situations, knowing without doubt he will always be watching my back. A quality that in times of war has allowed remarkable individuals like my friend to continue to survive and keep safe not only themselves but the men around them. As a boy I listened to such stories and thought them foolish…but that night in Rathclythe I was a firsthand witness to it.

For even as I hobbled painfully through the cold and the darkness with only a wounded, exhausted man to help me…a gang of bloodthirsty murderers on our trail…I felt quite safe.

Until from behind us we heard the tell-tale noise of approaching pursuit.

The anarchists had picked up our trail and were now coming for us.

TBC…


	30. That Sheds His Blood

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother;" – Shakespeare

Chapter 30: "That Sheds His Blood"

_**Holmes:**_

I gasped with a sudden flashing pain as I put more weight on my wounded leg – how did Watson ever stand the injuries he sustained in the Afghan War? I was already about to fold up completely.

Perhaps his strength learnt then was the only reason why he was even still on his feet – he was in battle mode, a leftover from the war. I never wondered before how a mere surgeon could possibly have been wounded _twice_ in a battle – he probably was indulging in that altruistic streak that was even now taking over his senses.

I had absolutely no idea how he was even still moving – I could feel through his supporting arms that his breathing was becoming dangerously shallow, and he was gasping for breath even as he continued to support over half my weight.

But even as the thought crossed my dazed mind, he stumbled and nearly fell, dropping to one knee – and of course I fell with him, an involuntary cry escaping my lips at the sudden agonizing movement.

"I – I am – so sorry," he gasped, eyes tightly closed, trying desperately to catch a breath. Poor chap, he was only worried about me.

I had no idea what to say to him, but I was saved the trouble when we heard a distant sound of a gunshot far behind us. Watson's already pale face drained of any remaining color, and he struggled gallantly to his feet, yanking me with him.

"They'll be upon us in a matter of moments," I gasped, trying desperately to take some of my weight off my friend. But he said nothing – probably was not capable of expending the necessary breath to – and pulled me along at an even faster clip.

How in the world was he doing this? I now knew how he had survived Afghanistan alive at least with that stubborn heroic streak – the man seemed to have no limits.

But I knew he did them, somewhere – and I could tell from his stumbling pace and shallow gasps that he was fast reaching said limits. We were nearly out of time.

_**Mycroft:**_

I was cursing Sherlock's foolhardiness and Tavish's stubbornness as the cab rattled back toward the hotel – it had taken me the better part of two hours to convince the policeman that there was enough evidence for an abduction warrant. Even my papers from Whitehall had not availed much to the good-hearted but hard-headed Scotsman.

I had decided to run back to the hotel, since it was on the way out of town, and make sure the Doctor was all right – Sherlock would absolutely kill me if I had allowed anything to happen to him.

In a matter of minutes we had reached the hotel and Tavish and I jumped out of the police wagon – the one following us, filled with Scottish constables, pulled up as well and waited for us.

"Doctor?" I called, upon opening the door to our sitting room, "Is everything all right?"

There was a dead silence, and suddenly a deep fear took possession of me. I strode to the bedroom and looked in, afraid I might see him on the floor, injured or otherwise – but the room was empty.

But then I saw something that made my heart stop. The gun from the table was gone, as was his coat and cap. Sherlock's burglary kit lay open on the bed, various implements strewn everywhere, and the dark lantern was missing as well.

"No," I gasped, leaning against the doorframe, "he was _not_ so foolish!"

But even as the words left my lips, I knew that he _was_ indeed that foolish, if my brother's life were on the line. He had gone after him – he had deceived me into thinking he was physically unfit to accompany me and then he had left not long after I had.

_I would kill him._

And Sherlock, for that matter.

That is, if they had not already been done in by this murderous sept.

I spun on my heel and in a few terse sentences detailed the situation to Tavish. His eyes widened in dismay, and he was about to say something when I heard it – a soft scuffling outside the door.

With a speed I did not think possible, I turned down the gas and pulled the officer with me behind the door of the bedroom. Within a moment, I saw the door slowly swing open, and three men stealthily entered, whispering softly when they saw the bedroom was empty.

"Must be th' other room," the one said softly, "better make this fast – and quiet."

"Right – Clyde said no rough stuff; 'e's got all the leverage 'e needs with that Holmes chap. The doctor won't need no persuadin'."

I stiffened at the words – my brother had indeed run straight into a trap. And Watson, errant heroic fool that he was, was on his way to try to rescue Sherlock.

These men knew where my brother was – I was not about to let them leave the room without revealing that information.

_**Holmes:**_

I bit back another cry as Watson stumbled once again, struggling gamely to keep his footing in the dark. We were nearly there – the only shelter one could see for a mile was the old mill just ahead; the place where Andrew Watson had worked for a living.

My leg pain had subsided to a rather sharp ache – either Watson's improvised tourniquet had succeeded in slowing the blood flow or else I was going into shock. I did not really care which, just so long as it was no longer that nauseating agony of earlier.

Watson's breathing had become increasingly labored as he stubbornly pressed onward, and I was deathly glad to see the mill entrance just ahead – he could not make it much further, and I could not go on without him. Nor would I if I were capable.

He staggered up against the door, throwing a worried glance behind us. I could no longer hear the sounds we had noticed earlier, but the wind had shifted directions, so they might possibly still be coming towards us. Watson leaned me up against the wall without a word and tried the door.

Upon finding it locked as it would normally be at midnight, he slumped for a moment against the heavy oak, breathing hard.

"Watson, around back – we can get in a window. But we have to hurry," I said urgently.

His eyes still closed, my friend nodded and then straightened up, again slinging my arm over his shoulder and putting his other arm around my waist for support.

We hobbled round to the back of the mill, where Watson managed to get a window open with the aid of the small knife he had fortunately taken from Carter when we escaped. He unceremoniously hoisted me through the opening and then started to clamber through himself.

At his sudden cry of pain, I steadied myself against the wall and grasped his hand, pulling him inside and shutting the window. I hopped on my good leg to turn round, and a sight met my eyes that sent a sick feeling traveling through me that was totally unrelated to my wound.

My friend was lying up against several bags of what I assumed were grain, curled up upon himself, his face contorted with intense pain, and his breathing was so shallow it was frightening me.

"Watson!"

He gave no answer but just lay there, gasping for breath, wheezing from the pain and pressure on his lungs and strained ribs. I started to kneel but more like fell beside him, ignoring the intense pain shooting up my leg, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Can't – can't go on – Holmes," he gasped, shaking all over from pain or fatigue – or more likely both, "I – I can't –"

"It's all right, Watson," I said gently, rubbing his shoulder supportingly, wishing desperately that I could believe my own words.

_Mycroft, for heaven's sake – you are a _Holmes_, brother mine! Prove it to the world now! We need you!_

_**Mycroft:**_

"Can you not make this trap go any faster, Tavish?" I shouted over the wind.

"Not safely, Mr. Holmes! With the wind like this, it could throw us right over the rail if we are na careful!"

I swore and settled back in my seat, drumming my fingers impatiently on the side of the open seat. Every moment that went by was yet another that Sherlock and the Doctor spent in peril – for I had no doubt that the Doctor would cave and help the sept in order to save my brother's life. That was a deduction a child could make.

And I knew that the anarchists would not remain in the old barrow on Andrew's estate once they learned what they needed to know.

I grinned despite my mood when I remembered how scared those men had been in the hotel when I had come up behind them – I was at least twice as large as any of them and a good two inches taller. It had not taken much persuasion from me to get them to reveal the location of the barrow. I had never had so much fun in all my life as I had in nearly throttling that one redhead.

We had nearly driven completely round Rathclythe when Tavish suddenly and inexplicably reined in the horses.

"Whoa, girl. Whoa. Mr. Holmes, did you hear tha'?"

"I heard nothing besides the wind, Inspector."

"Mayhap it was just my imagination, but I would swear I heard a gunshot."

"I certainly hope not," I muttered, straining my ears.

No, the man was right – there was another, and another – a veritable volley! From somewhere up ahead of us on the path!

"Get moving, Tavish!" I snapped, groping for the searchlight attached to the top of the trap.

"What lies up this road?"

"Th' old graveyard, Mr. Holmes, an' several groves of trees, nothing more," the man replied, whipping the horses.

The shooting had stopped suddenly as it had begun, the sound dying away on the wind. Tavish slowed the horse and looked at me.

"Go quietly," I said, knowing that we would stand a better chance of getting the gang to surrender if we surprised them.

Tavish nodded and put the horse into a walk. The wind had changed directions and was now blowing towards us instead of from us – that would help to ensure surprise. I found my active imagination running away with me and sternly tamped down upon my unease.

Suddenly Tavish halted, listening intently. Then he leapt down from the trap and led the horse off the road into a clump of thick bushes. The wagon behind us followed suit, and Tavish held up his hand for silence.

Then I heard what he had. Voices, several of them, angry voices – and they were coming straight down the path towards us. Tavish motioned to me to stay where I was with the searchlight, and I prepared to turn it on and see if the approaching men were the ones that had captured my brother and the Doctor.

_**Holmes:**_

"Watson?"

I could feel him still shaking violently, trying desperately to regain control – he had made it so bravely thus far that he had finally just collapsed.

"Watson, are – are you going to be all right?"

He nodded, his breathing slightly better now that he had been able to rest for a moment. I saw the pain in his eyes suddenly drop behind a cold mask of professionalism, and the change startled me to no end.

He coughed, shuddered, and then moved over to inspect my leg wound.

"Bleeding has nearly stopped," he said raspingly, "give me your wrist, Holmes."

"Now is not the time, Watson!"

"Just do it, please?"

I remained quiet while he took my pulse.

"A little low, but I don't think you're going into shock," he said, slumping back as relief washed over his features.

"I shall be fine, Watson. Now –"

I stopped short as I heard it, and Watson sat bolt upright, his face twisting in a silent indication of pain. We both looked at each other. Gunshots.

"I hope Clyde found Carter and shot the little traitor in the back," I was shocked to hear my friend declare viciously.

"Watson –"

"But, if that were the case, then Carter might have told them where we were when he left us and that the only place to hide round here is the mill," Watson went on, and before I could stop him he staggered unsteadily to his feet, wobbling severely but still keeping his balance. He extended a shaky hand to me and pulled me once again to my feet.

"We must hide," he said, seeing that I was not able to walk much further without his almost complete assistance. I cursed my own uselessness.

"Where would they be least likely to suspect we would hide?" he asked me.

"Up there," I indicated the extensive catwalks above our heads, "no one would expect that two wounded men could possibly make it up there."

"It will be rather a hard climb with only one leg, Holmes," he warned.

"As well as with one good arm and several broken ribs, Watson."

"Score's about even then, eh?"

"Lead on."

_**Mycroft:**_

"All right, gentl'men, no sudden moves, if you please!"

Tavish shouted the order as I turned the searchlight on the knot of men that had come within a few feet of our place of concealment. The light lit up the scene with a blinding glare, and the group of men were unable to see anything, putting their hands up to shield their faces.

Tavish motioned to his men, who had surrounded the group, and they searched all of them.

"They're each carryin' a gun, Inspector," a sergeant shouted.

"That's our group," I muttered, scrambling down rather awkwardly from the trap seat and walking over to stand with Tavish.

"Which one of these men is the leader, Mr. Holmes?"

I saw startled looks come into the men's faces as they heard my last name, and I might have smiled had the situation not been intense. There was no man standing here that could possibly answer to the description Sherlock had given me about Clyde.

And that weaselly Judas, Carter, was not among the men, either.

I noticed one fellow close to the back of the group that appeared to be trembling with absolute fright, and so I told Tavish to put all the men in the wagon save that one, and I walked over to him.

He was shaking so badly that the handcuffs were rattling loudly. I smiled – this might not be as difficult as I had anticipated.

"All right, my lad. Now. As a part of this anarchist group, you will be convicted of high treason against her Majesty's government and summarily hung afterwards," I said menacingly.

The little chap shook with fear, a petrified expression on his little face.

"However, if you turn Queen's evidence, you would probably get off with only hard labor for life. Now. Which shall it be?"

_**Holmes:**_

Watson had been right – climbing those ladders to the catwalk was not an easy task. More than once my one foot slipped and I was left hanging by my hands – the only thing enabling me to keep my grip being the knowledge that if I slipped down, I should take Watson with me crashing all the long way to the ground.

Where was my brother? He possessed even greater powers of observation and deduction than I – surely he had figured out the barrow by now? Perhaps had even run into several of the gang on the road? Surely?

I stopped, hearing sharp rasping breathing coming from below me. Looking down, I saw that Watson was clinging to the ladder, his eyes tightly shut, trying to catch his breath.

Mycroft had better hurry. We would not be able to hide forever. And if we were found, the gang would make short work out of two injured men. He had better use all speed.

_**Mycroft:**_

"Do you suppose he was tellin' the truth, Mr. Holmes?" Tavish gasped as he whipped up the horses.

"He appeared to be," I replied, a chill of horror running through me at the remembrance of man's words, "he seemed to be genuinely afraid of the gallows."

"If tha' is the case, then we are runnin' out of time – may even be too late!"

"Don't I know it."

I stared out at the blackness, swallowing hard. That little man had told us of Watson's ruse of loosening his hands, thereby springing my brother and Carter out of the graveyard. Then the man said they had heard a shot while searching for the trio and just a few minutes later, Carter had stumbled right into Clyde's patrol.

Carter had been terrified and tried to shoot it out with the sept leader, who easily overpowered the coward and forced the information from him that he had shot my brother in order to leave them behind to attract and distract the searching parties.

I had been filled with such blinding anger that Tavish had been forced to try and restrain me – the thought that Sherlock was out there somewhere, shot in the leg, with only a weakened, injured man to help him get to shelter made my blood boil.

What is worse, Clyde had taken off after the two of them with Carter – they were headed back to the scene of the shooting and were going to trace the two men easily, for they could not be moving very rapidly.

We might indeed be too late.

_**Holmes:**_

I collapsed at the top of the ladder, trying to catch my breath for a moment, and then turning round I grasped Watson's good hand and pulled him up after me. He managed to choke out a thank-you before dissolving into a deep cough, wincing at the movement.

I was growing even more worried – he had made me take back my coat after I had been shot, insisting that I would go into shock if I were not kept warm, and now his sweat-drenched clothes had to be freezing in the chilled air.

But he staggered to his feet and hauled me to mine, beginning to help me hobble toward the nearest landing. I was not able to make it very far, for the bleeding in my leg had started again from the strain of the climb, and I was once more feeling rather sick and weak.

Suddenly, when we were almost to the open area of the landing, I felt him stiffen – and then I too heard what his overwrought senses had already determined.

The front door, rattling on its hinge violently – someone was trying to get in!

Watson's face assumed a look of panic that must have mirrored my own, and I was suddenly astounded at the fact that he nearly picked me up off my feet with a mighty effort and got me behind a large stack of grain bags.

"Watson, what are you doing?" I hissed.

"This will have to do – we have not time to find a better hiding place," he gasped, clutching his side with a moan of pain; the sudden strain had been too much.

"We do not even have any cover!"

"You will be shielded from bullets by these sacks, at least," he said, glancing round the corner. Something in his tone raised an alarm in my muddled senses – something was not right about this…

"Watson, what are you doing?"

"Shh!"

I saw his face turn a shade whiter, and he swallowed with difficulty. He stumbled back to me, kneeling beside me on the floor and checking that improvised bandage on my leg wound.

"It – it's Clyde," he said, looking at me with eyes that were wide with fright, "and he has Carter with him – they were trying one of the windows just a moment ago."

I felt my own face blanch.

"They will not be expecting us to be up here, though, Watson," I said encouragingly, "we have only to hold off until Mycroft arrives. They might not find us."

"They will not find you, at least," I heard him mutter, and he got up before I could grab him and stop him from what I knew he was about to do.

"Watson, no!"

"Just keep quiet, Holmes, please? You are not making this any easier!"

"I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself just to draw their attention away from this spot!"

"You are not in an position to stop me, Holmes – and besides, I have no intention of sacrificing myself, not yet at least," he replied, peeking once more round the corner, "but we somehow have to gain time before your brother gets here."

"Watson, you can't –"

"Just keep quiet, Holmes, and don't disturb any dust or anything, will you?" he asked, and despite his brave words I could tell his voice was shaking with undisguised fright.

Then we both heard the sound of shattering glass, and before I could say anything more, Watson took off along the catwalk to put some distance between himself and me, leaving me staring in amazement – and fear – after him.

I had not even had a chance to thank him – or to beg him to be careful. If we by some miracle of God came out of this alive, I vowed to find some way to repay the debt I more than owed my gallant friend at this moment.

TBC…


	31. Truly Brothers

"To see the earth as we now see it, small and beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see ourselves as riders on the earth together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the unending night -- brothers who see now they are truly brothers."   
-_Archibald MacLeish_

Chapter 31: "Truly Brothers"

_**Watson:**_

There was a chance, a small chance, that if I could distract Carter and Clyde Mycroft might possibly arrive in time.

If luck was with us than I would not even have to reveal myself, Holmes' plan of hiding on the causeway might work. It is a known fact that hunters of all kinds are not in the habit of looking up…I could only pray that this absolute applied to Clyde as well.

Holmes had ceased his whispered protests sensing that silence was really our only chance. I crouched beside the railing, trying to quiet my own cursed breathing which had only become more agitated in my efforts.

A great rattling to the rear of the mill drew my attention. They had discovered the now-unlocked window that Holmes and I had come through, and a beam of light shone eerily through the darkness, casting bizarre shadows across the room.

I peered down through the boards of the walkway and was able to make out the imposing figure of Clyde, and Carter's shorter, thinner form. Clyde held the lantern and shone its light around the large, machinery-crowded room.

"They came here…they must've come here." Carter said, his whiny voice tight with excitement and also fear of his master.

The light, far from making the room clearer, seemed only to create further confusion, bouncing off numerous bales and bundles and cluttered equipment. In theory Holmes and I could be hiding anywhere…my heart lightened a little…perhaps this might work.

"Of course they are here Carter." Clyde snapped, casting the beam again, his own voice tight and confused.

Then he laughed and the sound pierced me like a cold blast of wind.

"See here…your impetuous shot has given us a trail."

I nearly gasped in out loud in horror, the blood from Holmes' leg…the wound had become agitated during the climb. And under the light of the small lantern, against the wood, it would be painfully visible.

I could not stay hidden, for they would find Holmes easily. But what could I do?

The upper floor on which we crouched was surrounded by sacks of grain and bins of untouched meal. The mill itself was of an older type, powered by water that rotated two large grinding stones beneath us…if I could get the flow to the water wheel started…

The voice of Clyde sounded again.

"Clearly they are on the upper level. Carter, be a good lad and go fetch them."

Carter's voice shook. "Sir – I – "

"Now, Carter! I'll not have you defying my orders again! I shall cover you from here."

Though I could not see his face I could picture the sneering smile upon it. I rose quietly to my feet, driven to action as Carter began to nervously mount the ladder to the catwalk.

_**Holmes:**_

I listened with terror to the entrance of our pursuers and their conversation from below. Idiot! Of course they would be able to follow the blood – I should have thought of that!

I looked round for Watson and saw to my relief that he had vanished into the darkness…unless it was only to try something foolhardy. He would not sit still while Carter came after me, though even with my leg and in my present condition I was still in better shape than he.

Carter's breathing echoed beneath me and his boots sounded heavily on the ladder as he climbed…perhaps I could push it over with him on it?

But Clyde had a gun…and from that position he would have a clear shot…would it be worth it?

I did not have the chance to decide as a sharp voice rang below.

"We do not have all night, Carter! Faster, if you please!"

Carter's pace grew rapid…and in a moment he had mounted the catwalk. He got to his feet, still panting for breath, and surveyed the level. Nervously he started forward, a second lantern in his hand, following the blatant trail of blood.

There was nothing else for it.

And as he drew within a few feet of me I reached out and tackled him round the knees as I had done before, sending the lantern crashing to the ground where it miraculously remained alight.

Carter shrieked and tried to struggle up but I was atop him by then, scrabbling for his throat. My hands found their target and I clenched my fingers around muscle and sinew, tightening, hearing him begin to choke and sputter.

But it appeared that I had become too weakened with blood loss in our mad dash for the mill because he began to successfully pry on my fingers, breaking my grip. He found my thumb and twisted it back sharply, forcing me to let go.

He spun then getting to his knees and turning to face me, his face a twisted mask of fury. He rushed forward impetuously and got hold of my coat, I drove the knee of my good leg up into his stomach and he backed off, gasping…only to come at me again the moment he had recovered.

Carter managed a few good blows before I pulled away from him and sent a blow at his face, not quite breaking his nose.

He growled and seized hold of my hair landing a blow on the bruise I had received in my skirmish with Mcallister. I yelped and tried to pull away but he had too good a hold.

I seized his wrist and twisted it violently, then twisted the entire arm up his back when he let go. He struggled violently, gasping as I held it higher and higher, trying to break it if I could. He scrabbled with his free hand trying to find a weapon.

I wrenched the arm sharply and he screamed, at last tugging on a stack of grain sacks…sending them tumbling down on both of us. I was forced to let go as the crushing weight came down and only just managed to avoid being buried completely.

Carter rolled out from under the pile and came at me again, his eyes alight with his murderous intentions.

I tried to back away but with my injury and the sacks strewn in every direction I could not move fast enough. Carter smiled down at me, and kicked me sharply in my wounded leg.

White hot pain ripped up the injured limb and I cried out trying to reach it.

His boot struck my face, driving me back, then struck the limb again, making my vision go blurry, my trouser leg grew wet and warm with the renewed flow of blood. He kicked it a second time and stars erupted in front of my eyes - I was dizzy, disoriented, my senses numb.

Then I began to choke as his fingers tightened around my throat in a vice-like grip. I wondered briefly where Watson was and why Clyde had not fired his gun?

Of course…he was hoping an accident would occur that would result in the death of all three of us. Carter had not told him about the authorities or Mycroft, and at any rate he could only have a maximum of three bullets in the gun anyway…he must be waiting to see if Carter would kill me first.

I pried vainly at the fingers around my throat as they tightened further…closing off my air. No matter how I dug or scratched there was no give. Carter's leering face was just above me. I tried to attack it instead, but my blows were growing weaker.

Where was Watson?

My vision was truly darkening now…I couldn't breathe.

A great rumbling filled the mill as the machinery began and slowly sped up…Watson had started the water wheel! He was distracting Clyde!

The knowledge that my friend was still out there and still fighting gave me new strength. I groped out beside me, searching for a weapon as Clyde had done…my hands met a soft, powdery substance.

I snatched up a handful of the flour and tossed it in his face. He howled as the refined dust struck his eyes and at last released his hold, allowing me to gasp a great breath of air through my bruised throat.

He was sitting up rubbing violently at his eyes, trying to clear them. I needed a weapon, something I could hold him off with.

I twisted, saw a pile of tools a short distance away, and I made for them.

Carter saw me and pulled at my leg, dragging me back. He crawled ahead of me as I fell flat, my leg radiating pain. The man seized a shovel from the pile and brought it crashing down an inch from my head. I rolled away, shoving another grain sack at his feet, trying to trip him up.

He brought the spade down again and split a sack just to my left as I rolled again, sending flour everywhere.

He smiled, relishing now in the fight and raised the shovel again. I kicked him in the knee with my good leg and rolled one last time far to my right, stretching my hand out.

I seized hold of a wooden shaft and brought it up as Carter ran towards me, the shovel raised in a blow that would have taken my head off.

There was a deadly crunching sound of metal on bone as Carter came up to a jolting halt and then a clatter as the shovel was dropped.

My stomach twisted inside me and I turned my head away from the gruesome sight…even for a turncoat like Carter…it was a terrible way to die.

The tool I had selected, I now realized, was a sharpened pickaxe. The weapon now was torn from my hands as Carter stumbled backward, crashing into the railing, which cracked under his weight. Then he fell to the floor of the mill with a long, gurgling scream.

_**Watson:**_

When the levers gave way beneath my hands and I heard the great machinery of the giant water wheel begin to grind and turn, I could have shouted for joy.

I had been too far away from Holmes to get back there before Carter got to him – I could only pray desperately that this had distracted him enough for Holmes to get an advantage. I knew Carter was a terrible fighter, and Holmes was an exceptional one, but Holmes was wounded. I hoped greatly as the wheel began to grind that Holmes was all right.

I dared not move now, knowing that Clyde was probably waiting down below with a drawn gun for me to show myself. The machinery hummed and creaked and clanked, reminiscent to my mind of some instrument of death, so charged was the atmosphere in that place with the energy of desperation, of survival.

I was so close to the machine's workings that I had not heard any of the sounds of the impending struggle across the great room from me, and I was beginning to get dreadfully worried. I would give Holmes ten more seconds, and then I would start running, Clyde or no Clyde.

Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.

Before I reached two, my heart seemed to stop and my stomach plummeted all the long way down to the ground – a body had just gone over the catwalk railing!

Horrible visions of what it meant began flashing through my mind with an awful rapidity that made my head swim, and I clutched at the railing, my whole body shaking with fear. If that were Holmes…

I saw myself having to explain to a grieving Mycroft why I had not been able to help his brother, saw myself ridden with guilty nightmares about the man who had died while trying to solve this personal case of mine. Saw poor Mrs. Hudson, renting the rooms in Baker Street to another tenant. Saw the men at Scotland Yard all in dress uniforms at the funeral…

All these thoughts hit me at once with a horrible impact, and I gasped as the mental pain was almost as bad as the physical pain within me. I could take the strain no longer – I could not see from here if the body were Carter or Holmes. In the dark, all I saw was a tall thin shadowy form lying on the ground thirty feet below.

I squelched with an effort the rapidly rising hysteria and nausea churning within me and began to edge my way out onto the catwalk once more. I could not see Clyde anywhere, no lantern, no moonlight coming in through the windows. Nothing.

Where was he?

There is nothing in the world, I believe, that could possibly be more unnerving than to have to walk on a three-foot-wide catwalk above a thirty-foot drop, knowing that out there somewhere is a man with a gun trained in your vicinity and that your dearest friend in the world could be dead just as you are doing that – and if he _is_ dead, then it is your fault.

I had edged my way along the catwalk and then picked up speed as nothing happened. I stumbled, however, as a sharp pain shot through my overtaxed side, and without thinking about it I gasped reflexively.

And a bullet whistled within an inch of my head, zinging off the wall behind me.

I will be the first to admit that I was petrified, and in consequence my nerve completely broke at that point in the nightmarish evening's events.

I panicked and ran for it.

Which was not a smart move at all, considering the fact that the pain shooting through my chest was increased tenfold. I justified my fear by telling myself that a moving target was harder to hit, but I knew in my heart the real reason.

I was scared.

Deathly, completely, absolutely terrified.

Scared that Holmes was already dead, that he had died saving me…scared that I was left alone in this old mill with no one in the world to help me…scared that I was about to die just as my brother had last winter at this man's hand.

I flinched as another bullet came ricocheting off the wall near me – surely Clyde didn't have many left?

But there was another, too close this time; I could feel the wind as it imbedded itself in the railing where I had been only seconds before. I came round the last corner and stopped, for the moonlight was luminous here and I could see everything.

Holmes was not dead – thank God! But he was hurt, for he was curled up in an almost fetal position, clutching at his wounded leg. It had been Carter that fell, then! And the fight must have nearly taken all Holmes's energy.

But then my heart stopped, for I saw where Clyde was – he was just reaching the top of the ladder nearest Holmes. My friend could not see him because of the many bags of grain that had become no more than a jumbled heap – I was not even sure from here if Holmes were even conscious.

But I knew I had to hurry, for within ten seconds Clyde would be up that ladder. And in three more, Holmes would have a bullet in his head.

I took off at a run once more, faster this time, heedless of the pain in my chest. Holmes jerked his head up at the clattering of my footsteps, and I saw Clyde's head make the same movement.

In a matter of one instant, the anarchist leader had leapt up and over the last rung of the ladder and was aiming for Holmes, intending to kill him right in front of my eyes.

Whether I received the added burst of speed from a merciful Providence or from desperation I to this day do not know, but in less than two seconds I had tackled the man and the gun went skittering across the wooden catwalk…straight over the edge to a thirty-foot drop below.

My pained cry was nearly a scream as the violent jarring sent such a shock through my body that my vision blurred – and I didn't have time to see the booted foot that shot out and hit me in the side, directly on my injury.

My vision was still blurry, and I was desperately trying to see clearly, when I felt a death-grip on the front of my jacket and a hand grabbed my bad wrist and twisted it ferociously, eliciting another cry of pain.

Suddenly the colors swimming in front of my eyes cleared, and just as they did I realized with a severe attack of panic that my entire upper body was no longer against hard wood – I was halfway over the edge under the low railing!

My good hand flailed round wildly and latched onto the lowest rail, and I clutched it with a death grip, seeing out of the corner of my eye the long, long, sickening drop to the ground below. I was terrified as the anarchist continued to twist my sprained wrist and shove me backwards, and I was hanging on empty air.

One more good twist and I might with reflexes let go of the rail – and plummet to my death.

I was praying with everything in me for a miracle, and my desperation must have showed in my face, for Clyde pushed me even further over the edge, his hand on my coat and my grip on the rail the only things keeping me from falling.

"Well, Doctor," he hissed leaning closely into my face, "you have that same deathly look of fear that Andrew did just before I let him go over that embankment on the road last winter!"

I was trembling with fright, I am not ashamed to admit the fact, and as the man snarled about my poor brother's demise, I had no doubt at that point that I was on my way to join him. My fingers were loosening on the rail as the man twisted my bad arm once more, and I knew I was not going to survive this.

Then suddenly the pressure was released and I was forcefully yanked back and sent sprawling on the narrow catwalk.

After the initial shock of escaping death, I saw that Holmes had managed to hop to his one good foot and tackled Clyde, yanking him away from the edge and hauling me with him, still clutched in the man's grasp.

But my momentary limp relief was annihilated when I saw my friend rolling on the ground atop the gang leader and landing a terrific blow to the man's head. Clyde screamed and lashed out…

…and Holmes could not stop himself from continuing to roll on the only three-foot-wide catwalk – and disappeared straight over the edge!

Without thinking, I instinctively dove for him just as his frantically groping hands lost their slippery grip on the edge and locked my one good hand round his wrist at the instant his fingers slipped off the walk.

At the sudden sharp jolt, he looked up at me in shock and absolute terror, his face paler than I had ever seen it – he too had thought he was going to die right there.

But as his weight began to slowly, inexorably pull me gradually over the edge, I frantically realized that I could not hold him – he was going to pull me over as well! And I certainly could not let go of him!

Ignoring the stabbing pain in my abused right wrist, I grasped hold of the rail and used it to try to push back on the force pulling me over – it was not availing much.

Holmes had locked both his wrists around mine, and I could already feel myself slipping under his dead weight. His grey eyes looked up at my frantic ones with absolute terror – he knew that I was not able to hold onto him much longer.

We were both going to go over the edge, because I refused to let go of him.

And – I had also forgotten about Clyde.

As my agonized muscles strained to keep Holmes from slipping and myself from going over the edge along with him, I was horrified to turn my head and see that the anarchist had gotten to his feet and was towering over me with an amused smile.

"Very brave, Doctor," he smirked, gazing at the dreadful scene in front of him, "very brave indeed. Too bad it has to all end here."

And I could do absolutely nothing but lie there as his booted foot came crashing down on my fingers that were tightly gripping the rail.

TBC…


	32. His Brother Before Himself

"Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself"

Chapter 32: "His Brother Before Himself"

_**Watson:**_

Clyde's boot crashed down on my hand, and I shouted at the pain but did not let go.

My wrist ached with the burden of Holmes' weight, and he stared up at me, his fingers white where they clutched my arm. But he could not assist, there was no purchase, nothing to hold onto. He hung with nothing but empty space beneath him.

Clyde did not seem at all perturbed as I continued to desperately hold on. His mouth set in a predatorial grin. He bent down to pry free my hand instead…which was clinging to the railing and was the only thing keeping both Holmes and myself from going over the edge.

Part of my numb mind registered with a stab of terror that this was exactly what had occurred in my dream on the Flying Scotsman.

Holmes's weight shifted beneath me and his hand clenched tighter. He was slipping…I could not hold him…I could hear his frightened gasp as his hand slipped down another half-inch.

A shot rang muffled outside of the mill's front door and it burst inward, allowing several familiar figures inside.

Mycroft was at the fore, looking far more ruffled than I had ever seen him, his clothes askew. Behind him came Inspector Tavish and another officer, holding tightly onto a handcuffed man whom I recognized to be a member of the sept.

Clyde's head shot up at the sight of them and he leapt for my hand with a snarl, prying at my fingers.

The elder of the Holmeses looked up at us with an expression of terror and his face drained to a pasty white at the sight of his brother, dangling above a thirty-foot drop to a concrete floor..

"Dear Lord! SHERLOCK!"

Clyde was tearing viciously at my hand now, but it had become almost a part of the wood, so tightly did I hold on. The villain slammed his boot into my side and I cried out in pain, as my fractured ribs grated against one another, and I heard Holmes's muffled cry as the blow jolted both of us.

Then the cool Inspector Tavish raised his revolver and took careful aim.

And fired one shot.

The bullet entered high in Clyde's left forehead and went straight through…the man fell sideways, his eyes already dead and glazed, a small sigh of air escaping his lips before he hit the floor limply.

Then the tense moment of peril was past and the men below broke out of their paralyzed state…pelting frantically toward the ladder.

They would not reach us in time.

Holmes's hand had slipped down to the level of my wrist and our linked arms were shaking with the effort and the tension. I could not hold him any longer…but I could no let go of him, I would die with him first…I had to get him up now…but my arm was giving away…it did not possibly have the strength to lift him.

Our gazes locked and I looked into his terrified gray eyes. There was no direction there, no thought. For once Sherlock Holmes did not have or even attempt to think of an answer. Whether by his choice or no the matter was entirely in my hands.

Long ago I had promised himself that it was my self-appointed task to help Holmes come out of his foolhardy ventures alive…let alone _my _ventures. There was no choice in the matter, I had crossed the Rubicon, or rather burnt the bridge.

I could not, I _would not_ let him fall.

With this stubborn decision firmly in place my mind came up with a sudden inspiration and I hooked my booted feet over the opposite edge of the walkway, beginning to inch us backward.

I shook with the effort, my chest and my arms ached past the point of feeling, but soon my weight was settled enough that I could let go of the railing and reach my other hand out to my friend.

I had lost sight of him as I had backed up, but his thin white hand, still clung to mine…and as he perceived that he was moving upward his other came up over the edge and began to scrabble against the wood attempting to find a purchase.

I gripped that hand with my injured right and continued to drag him up. During a time that seemed to stretch far longer than it did his head slowly appeared in view and then his face, his mouth set in a grim, determined line, his jaw clenched. Then his shoulders, and then he was pulling himself up on his elbows, taking some of the terrible weight off of me.

At long last his legs and his feet came over the edge and he crawled forward before falling into a limp heap on the wood beside me, breathing heavily.

He smiled shakily and I returned the expression.

"Well done, Watson." He intoned breathlessly, before closing his eyes and letting his head go limp as well.

I closed my own eyes, and rolled onto my back, giving in to the great rattling coughs that shook my aching ribs.

It was over…at last it was over.

Then the stairway was shivering and vibrating with the approach of Tavish and Mycroft's cries echoed again from below.

"Sherlock?!...Doctor!"

Holmes took a few more deep breaths and gasped out a reply.

"We're all right Mycroft!"

"Thank God!" sighed the voice, intense in its relief.

Tavish had reached us and knelt beside Holmes, who was closer. He reached out with a steady hand.

"Mr. Holmes…Doctor…we had best get you down if we can."

Holmes nodded and shakily pushed himself up. He was shivering, from blood loss and fright more than cold, for he still wore his coat. His face was a pasty grey, the adrenaline that had coursed through him must be gone now…allowing for the pain of his leg and other various hurts to hit him full force.

I did not even want to picture what I looked like.

My breathing had steadied a little and I got very slowly to my knees to follow the Inspector as he raised Holmes to his feet.

Holmes gasped as his weight was once again placed on his leg. I clutched at the railing, trusting it to support me…the mysterious strength that had helped me through the night was nearly gone.

By some miracle we made it down the ladder.

The moment Holmes's feet touched the floor, Mycroft rushed forward and took charge of him, helping him to lie down on the dusty floor, propped up against a sack of grain. He ran shaky hands over his younger brother checking for injuries and paused when he reached the bloody bandages on his left leg, his pale face turning splotchy with crimson rage. Holmes did not object but lay back against the sack, as spent as I was.

Tavish smiled at this and turned back to help me down the rest of the way, leading me over to Holmes.

Mycroft turned to see us approach and moved out of the way without a word…removing his enormous coat and draping it across my shaking shoulders.

I murmured my thanks and knelt beside my friend, fumbling with the dressings, ignoring the shooting pain in my wrist.

I vaguely heard Tavish order his man to take the sept member out and several others to remove Carter and Clyde…no, they did not have names any longer…they were dead…it was over.

Mycroft hovered beside me, watching, his face and fists tight.

I removed the scarf and bloodsoaked cap, exposing the wound in the upper part of Holmes' shin just below his knee. For the first time I got a look at it in the light and I cursed under my breath.

Carter had known what he was doing. The wound itself was not threatening to artery, joint, or bone…but it was placed in a terrible spot. It must have been agony for Holmes to walk upon.

I turned to Mycroft to request some supplies and could have cried with joy as he pressed a familiar black bag into my hand.

The elder Holmes smiled grimly. "I brought it back from the hotel with me…though I prayed we would not have need of it. How is he, Doctor?"

"He's lost a great deal of blood Mycroft, but there should be no lasting damage."

"_He's_ not passed out - yet." Holmes quipped dryly, his eyes still closed.

I laughed wearily and Mycroft sighed as though a great weight had been removed from him. I belatedly remembered that Holmes' brother had never actually been witness to our many dangerous cases together. Seeing his brother in this state had shaken him a great deal.

"Lie still, Holmes." I said, removing the various implements I needed to clean the wound.

Holmes nodded and then stiffened, with a hiss as I dabbed at the injury…cleaning it and the blood around the edges. It was at least a clean wound and I was able to bandage it neatly with Mycroft's help. But by the time I was nearing the end, I could see that my hands were beginning to tremble, and I was feeling quite sick.

Holmes remained still throughout, whether from exhaustion or his iron will power I did not know, and quite frankly I did not care…I was too tired. And no sooner had I finished with the bandage then I felt the last of my energy leave my limbs and I fell rather dizzily in Mycroft's direction.

I distantly heard Holmes's voice calling me urgently but his voice seemed to get further and further away.

"Mycroft – catch him!" was the last thing I heard faintly before the ringing in my ears nearly deafened me.

I gasped…something was tugging at my sore chest, restricting my breathing. I struggled to move away but my limbs were dead and unresponsive. Something pricked my arm.

"N-no-o!" I gasped trying to open my leaden eyelids.

"Its just another sedative, Doctor," came Mycroft's voice, still tense with worry. "For the ride back."

I forced my eyelids open and was met by his sharp gray eyes. "Where is Holmes?"

"I am here, Watson."

I turned my head to see Holmes…sitting beside me, wrapped tightly in his Inverness, paused in the act of inserting the needle into my arm.

I shivered in the sudden cold, and for some reason it bit deeper than before. I looked down at my chest and saw that Mycroft was rebinding my ribs. I was without shirt or jacket, hence the cold, the elder Holmes had already rebandaged my wrist and I realized that we were still in the mill. I could not have been unconscious for very long.

"Watson…will you take this?" Holmes asked softly, waiting for my consent.

I reached over with enormous effort and gripped his arm. "Do you promise...promise that this time…you will not go anywhere?"

Holmes smiled. "I am hardly capable of such a feat in my present state, my dear Watson."

I nodded then, though I did not release my grip. There was a sharp prick as the needle entered my already pock-marked arm, and the morphine hit my system, numbing the sharp pain in my ribs and wrist, and generally all over.

I sighed with relief and lay back, letting the blackness take a firm hold this time.

_**Holmes:**_

Mycroft finished binding Watson's ribs after he had lost consciousness a second time…I was surprised at the very gentle ministrations of my brother. He had shown a great deal of kindness to my friend throughout this case.

He picked up his greatcoat from where it had fallen on the floor and wrapped it securely around the Doctor and then, to my further surprise, lifted Watson into his arms and carried him off towards the carriage he had brought.

It was only a moment or two before he came back for me and pulled my arm round his great shoulders, helping me to my feet and taking almost my entire weight.

Mycroft was large, he had always been, but it appeared he was also strong when he desired to be.

"You would be wise in taking a sedative yourself Sherlock." He said softly, walking slowly as I hobbled along, my leg feeling a great deal better now that it was firmly wrapped and the bleeding halted by Watson's expert bandaging. My sufferance was now mainly from loss of blood…which had left me feeling drained and weak.

Right now the only thing I wanted was to sleep, and we still had a cursed long ride back to the hotel. I envied Watson, who would no doubt sleep for the duration.

"No, Mycroft…I cannot leave you with two unconscious men. I may be some help at least. And…and I want to be there when he wakes – I _did_ promise him."

Mycroft looked at me. "You were doing it in his best interest, Sherlock…it is understandable."

"But not excusable. He may forgive it but I cannot…I cannot help but think that one day I may go too far in lying just for his best interests."

My brother sighed and halted beside the carriage, helping me to mount the step. "Cease such morbid talk Sherlock…it is over and you are both safe. That is all I care about."

I smiled at this change in my usually official brother; then I straightened in my seat. "Mycroft, the sept, and the papers - did you -"

"We have them, Mr. Holmes," came Tavish's voice from where he stood beside Mycroft. "The whole lot of them, thanks to you and your brother…and the Doctor of course…these papers should be more than enough to put them where they belong. We may need statements from you later but right now you can consider the matter over with. Though mind you, I will nae ever get over the sight of your brother storming into the station, demanding we rush to your rescue…or how he took out the three ruffians who were after Doctor Watson."

Mycroft had gone slightly red. I did not try to repress my smile.

"Your brother is a veritable bear when he is stirred up, Mr. Holmes…and I canna say that I will nae be glad to see the last of you three. I've never had such a time as these last few days has been…and I will have a great deal of trouble in cleaning up this mess."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you, Tavish," he huffed, mounting the step himself and seating himself opposite to me and Watson.

The officer in the driver's seat whipped up his horses at Mycroft's word and we set off through the darkness.

Funny to think that we had been walking over this same area only an hour before in fear of our lives and now we were riding over it, warm and peaceful and blessedly safe in Mycroft's care.

My brother seemed not in the least bit tired but sat comfortably in his seat watching the surrounding area with his usual scrutinizing gaze.

I turned to Watson and saw that he was sleeping quite peacefully…his face, which had been lined and worn with worry, was now lax in unconsciousness, and he appeared to no longer be shivering, wrapped warmly in Mycroft's coat.

I sighed and laid back closing my eyes, now that the danger was past. Now that we had finally laid the last of Watson's ghosts to rest I was abysmally tired…much as I usually was at the end of an exhausting case.

And this one had been inhumanely exhausting.

I sighed and let the swaying of the carriage lull me into a dozing state. I knew that in a moment I would be asleep…that I should remain awake and discuss the details with Mycroft while they were fresh in my memory…but I was too tired…far too tired…

_**Watson:**_

I was warm and comfortable, which was a far cry from what I had been. The lingering effects of the morphine left my limbs feeling immensely sluggish and my mind fuzzy and clouded. I felt incredibly light…inexplicably positive, as though no weights or demands or duties weighed on my time. I felt as safe and secure as though I were in my childhood bed.

Perhaps I was…it did not really matter, I was content to lie there in that blissful state until the angel Gabriel blew his horn.

"Watson."

I knew that voice, and I knew it was important, but I could not remember why.

"Watson."

Ah, yes…that was the voice of my dearest friend, the one that in times of security and trouble alike rang with a masterful authority that could not be denied. Perhaps we were in Baker Street, and he was waking me yet again in the infernal hours of the morning to rise with him and go on a case.

No. Thought a clear part of my mind. You're forgetting something. Something urgent.

I stirred irritably, and then at last I realized what was wrong…why had I been given morphine?!

"Watson." The voice rang a third time, now laced with impatience. And there was a gentle shaking at my shoulder.

Out of habit I tried to swat him away with my right hand, and found that I could not.

I opened my eyes and blinked down at my sling-bound arm and then up at the sharp, grey eyes and aquiline face of Sherlock Holmes – then all the events of the previous night came rushing back and in my dazed, just woken state they seemed almost like a bizarre dream.

Or a dreadful nightmare.

"You are not going to stay in bed all day, are you, Watson?" said Sherlock Holmes as casually as though we were in Baker Street and the bruises on his face and the bandaging on his leg did not exist. "I am not used to conversing with only Mycroft – it can get rather tedious, all that talk of politics and officials."

I laughed slightly and winced as my tightly bound ribs panged sharply.

Holmes' brows furrowed. "How are you feeling, Watson?"

"Better, now that I'm not hauling your weight around, not that there is much of it. But what of yourself? Considering the circumstances you look remarkably well."

I glanced and saw that the dressing I had placed on his leg was still clean and white and in place, and though he was obviously favoring it, he could stand well enough.

Holmes smiled slightly. "I daresay the closing of this case has done us both a great deal of good, Watson. That and over twelve hours' sleep."

"Twelve hours!"

"Mmm. I am ashamed to say I fell asleep in the carriage and was only just aware enough to help Mycroft get me to my bed before I was out again. He must have taken the liberty of giving you a second sedative."

I scowled, and Holmes laughed.

"Well…you can hardly blame him, Watson, both of us vanishing on him like that, poor fellow. This entire case has been a strain on his nerves. I daresay he will be more than relieved to return to his Diogenes Club."

"And I shall be quite happy to return to London." I said.

A shadow passed over the detective's face. "Yes, I believe all three of us have seen enough of Scotland for a while." I fancy I saw a slight shudder pass through his long thin frame but then the smile was back in place on his face and he turned to me seriously. "Do you think that you can walk, Watson?"

I told him that I could, but that I was more concerned about him…he waved off my protests holding aloft the walking stick he usually carried with us on journeys.

"It seems, Watson, that it is to be used properly for once…rather than as a weapon as I have seen fit to use it in the recent past."

I laughed at this and with Holmes's assistance was able to rise from my bed and accompany him to the sitting room, though my movements were still heavy and sluggish.

The morphine had worn off completely by this time and I was more than glad to seat myself at the table where the remains of a breakfast, still hot, sat waiting for us.

"Where is Mycroft?" I asked, helping myself to a cup of tea.

Holmes smiled and sank into a chair opposite me with a slight grimace. "He left earlier…after I gave him my firm assurances that neither of us would go gallivanting across the countryside any time soon. He has gone to see Inspector Tavish."

I grimaced, half in sympathy and half because of the ache that now attacked my ribs full-heartedly. "We left him quite a mess, didn't we?"

"Mmmhmm. It might not have been such a mess if he had been intelligent enough to listen to Mycroft last night…nor would you have had to extend yourself so far." He took a large bite of toast and when he did not go on I posed another question.

"Will we be leaving today?"

Holmes smiled again and swallowed. "That, my dear Watson, is entirely up to you. If you feel up to it than we shall certainly leave as soon as possible. Our business here is done, and we have done far more than our share."

The front door swung open as he spoke and Mycroft entered in time to hear the last bit of this. There were large shadows around his eyes, and somehow I doubted that he had slept last night.

"You have, indeed." He said smiling at the both of us. "How are you feeling, Doctor?"

"I believe he is eager to be on the way home, Mycroft. " Holmes turning to face his brother. "Have you completed your business with Tavish?"

Mycroft nodded wearily.

"Yes, at last, the narrow-minded man. And I wholeheartedly agree, Doctor. Next time I am inclined to accompany you on one of your outings, Sherlock, put me _off_ the idea. It involves far too much movement. "

Mycroft left the room and Holmes watched him until the door to the bedroom had shut, then he threw back his head and laughed. I chuckled, careful of my ribs and raised my cup in my left hand, rather clumsily.

When he had finished my friend took several deep breaths. "If nothing else, Watson, I think this particular case has done a great deal of good for Mycroft's circulation….he won't be comfortable again for a month."

He chuckled to himself, raising his cup to his lips, glancing at me slyly. "And it is nice to see that your Baritsu lessons are finally sinking in, old chap."

Not more than two hours later we were on the train headed for Baker Street, and when we arrived were greeted with a bundle of telegrams, a piping hot meal of Mrs. Hudson's, and in my case, a long letter from Mary.

Holmes watched me open it eagerly before settling himself in his chair, leaning his stick against the fireplace, and leaning back with a small noise of satisfaction, his pipe between his lips.

It was good to be home.

TBC…


	33. Epilogue

_A brother noble,_

_Whose nature is so far from doing harms_

_That he suspects none._

_-William Shakespeare_

Epilogue

_**Watson:**_

"Well?" I cried impatiently.

I had burst through the open door of Holmes's bedroom and was now standing in the doorway, arms out from my sides demonstratingly.

"Well what, Watson?" he asked, looking at me in his dresser mirror as he fastened his white silk tie.

"Well what can you deduce from my appearance, Holmes?"

He whirled to face me, a large grin crossing his features, his eyes flashing in good humor.

"Might it be a safe deduction that you finally were able to take the bandaging off your wrist, Watson?"

"Amazing, Holmes! I do not know how you do it!"

He chuckled, throwing on his jacket and elbowing me good-naturedly as he brushed past me into the sitting room.

"Aren't you going to tell me how you arrived at that stunning conclusion?"

He lit his pipe with another smile and jabbed the stem in my direction, playing along with my facetious game.

"This is the first time in three weeks that I have not had to fasten your collar and fix your tie for you," he said pointedly.

I grinned at him.

"You did, however, miss a button again, as you have been doing occasionally," he went on, peering at my starched shirt over his smoking pipe.

I flushed with embarrassment and glanced down – only to find that he had been mercilessly teasing me; the shirt looked perfectly normal.

"Really, Holmes!"

My friend glanced over my shoulder, cocking his head to one side.

"Do come up, Mycroft!" he bellowed.

I winced at the so very vocal outcry, and I heard some grumbled remonstrance from the stairs.

"It is only seventeen steps, Watson," Holmes addressed me, answering the question in my eyes, "and I know of no other gentleman who has to stop and rest halfway up that few in number."

"I heard that, Sherlock!" said gentleman growled, his great bulk appearing in the doorway.

I tried desperately to wipe the grin off my face, but it was of no use – I was in too good a mood this evening. We were back in London, our injuries had finally healed, Mary and I were to take our first country outing together in nearly a month tomorrow morning, and Holmes and I had tickets to the theatre tonight.

_Nothing_ could take the smile from my face now.

"Well, brother mine, is Whitehall going to give you a vacation after bringing that anarchist group to justice?"

The elder Holmes collapsed on the couch and moaned dismally.

"Far from it – from the amount of paperwork that piled up while we were running about Edinburgh, one would think that no one else in that office does _anything_ whilst I am away!"

Holmes snickered and seated himself in his armchair. I leaned against the mantle, my hands in my trouser pockets, the complete happiness that was washing over me from the lack of pain whatsoever in my ribs bringing a large smile to my face. Mycroft turned and scrutinized me.

"You are looking very much better, Doctor," he observed.

"I rather think that is a deduction even my poor skills could have made, Mr. Holmes," I replied, trying to keep my face straight.

Holmes snorted behind me and laughed at his brother's expression. Mycroft rolled his eyes and fished in a large pocket.

"I did not come here merely as a social call, gentlemen."

"Have you ever?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No," the man admitted, scowling at his younger sibling, "and that is why – your confounded sarcasm, Sherlock, will one of these days get you into trouble! How have you stood him all these years, Doctor?"

"Well…"

"I should like to remind you, Watson, who is paying for dinner tonight?"

"Er, yes. Well, I was going to say, that I can stand it because – it is more habit now than anything else?" I said, glancing at Holmes.

"Oh, very funny, Watson."

He sent me an extremely childish face and turned back to his brother.

"Tell me then, brother, what pray tell have you for us that would bring you here tonight?"

"I have nothing for _you_, Sherlock," the man replied, glaring at Holmes, "so do cease to flatter yourself. I have a missive here for the Doctor."

"For me?" I was surprised, and the man nodded, handing me the thick, stiff letter.

When I turned the envelope over and saw the crest on the back, my face drained of color, and I collapsed heavily in my chair opposite Holmes, staring at Mycroft in disbelief.

His watery grey eyes held a look of great pride as he spoke. 

"Your brother is being awarded a medal, Doctor, for his prevention of that assassination attempt. Posthumously, of course – therefore the next of kin shall be the one to accept the honor at the ceremony. Do please make sure you and Sherlock are on time, Doctor?"

His attempt at lighthearted humor in that last statement did not detract from the import of the message, and I was speechless for a moment. Holmes got up and looked over my shoulder as I stared at the envelope.

"Thank you," I said at last in a low voice, still stunned by this shocking turn of events.

"Thank _you_, Doctor. You proved your extraordinary mettle throughout this entire case, and England is in debt to you as well as to your late brother."

I was still trying to find my tongue when Holmes gave me a congratulatory wink and went back to his chair.

Mycroft heaved himself regretfully out of his seat and started for the door. I followed to show him out.

"I have other calls to make, so I must wish you both a good evening," Mycroft said, putting his hat back on his head.

"Evening, brother," Holmes called lazily from his seat, not bothering to get up.

Mycroft glanced at his younger sibling and shook his head, rolling his eyes once more at me. I smiled in sympathy.

"Thank you again, Doctor," he said, extending a large hand. I shook it firmly, very glad indeed that I was now able to use that arm fully.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"Good evening, Doctor. Oh, and Watson?"

"Yes, sir?" I asked, as the man turned on the stairs and looked up at me.

"Please, do continue to call me Mycroft?"

I smiled, a sudden warmth spreading over me.

"Of course."

The elder brother's wide face broke into an equally wide grin as he nodded to me and then exited the front door, amiably waving off Mrs. Hudson's flurrying ministrations.

I turned and re-entered the sitting room.

"We probably should be getting on, if we are to eat dinner before the performance," he remarked casually, "what time is it, Watson?"

I out of habit reached in my waistcoat pocket but then remembered that Andrew's watch had been destroyed in the struggle to round up the anarchists. A frown crossed my face as I recalled the fact – but then I realized – there was still a watch in my pocket?

Deeply puzzled, I pulled the chain and extricated the timepiece from my pocket. And I stared at it in bewilderment – I had certainly not put it there. It was roughly the same style and size as my brother's, and I curiously opened the cover to see an inscription inside.

_To my dear Watson,_

_A brother noble,  
Whose nature is so far from doing harms  
That he suspects none._

_Regards,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

My friend continued to amaze me with his knowledge of the classics, but more than that I was astonished at his continued thoughtfulness throughout this whole dreadful business. He had realized that the loss of the main clue of the case, the item I had inherited after Andrew's death, had bothered me very much.

I looked up, only to see that his chair was empty, and he was staring moodily out the sitting room window with his hands in his pockets. I snapped the cover of the timepiece shut with a soft click and rose.

"Half-past six," I said softly, walking over to the window and standing beside him.

He started. "I beg your pardon?"

"You asked me what time it was."

"I did? Oh, yes. Well. We had better get started then, don't you think?"

Holmes was refusing, as he usually did when either nervous or embarrassed, to look at me directly. I had seen the same uneasy flush on his face in the cemetery at Rathclythe, when he was so unsure of himself.

I glanced out the window, and saw that he had been watching his brother rather gracelessly chase down a four-wheeler on Baker Street. I had a feeling I knew what he had been thinking about.

"You know, Holmes, for all your bickering, I believe you and Mycroft do truly love each other under all that deduction and brain-power," I said quietly, a smile turning the corners of my mouth.

Again he started, and this time he looked me in the eyes with amazement written upon his features.

"My dear Watson, I did not realize the gift of deduction was so contagious," he replied, a little uneasily.

I laughed at his discomfort, but then my face sobered and I turned away from the window, pacing slowly over to the fireplace.

"It is not much of a deduction, Holmes," I said quietly, "a business such as this makes a man re-evaluate what God has seen fit to grant him, does it not?" My hand clenched around the watch in my pocket as I spoke, a soft sadness coming over my previously happy countenance.

"Yes, my dear chap. Very much so," I heard him sigh, and then his footsteps were evident coming up behind me.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"I – I am truly sorry that the whole thing was so shoddily handled."

That made me turn round, and I could see guilt in his eyes.

"It was _not_ shoddily handled, Holmes. And – and I for one am glad of the case," I said, gulping down my discomfort at this personal discussion, "for – it has also made me re-evaluate things, as well."

Holmes nodded in perfect understanding.

"And – thank you," I continued, "for there is no possible way I should have made it on my own, physically or emotionally. I am forever in your debt, Holmes."

He smiled, and I saw the guilt disappear and be replaced with warmth as he put both hands on my shoulders as we stood there.

"I told you on the train, Watson – it will always be my pleasure to serve you, now and forever."

I met his gaze with a shaky smile, blinking back the sudden tears that stung the back of my eyes.

"Now, what time did you say it was?"

I was heartily relieved, and so was he I believe, to revert back to our former jollity – this was the first real relaxation we had had since we returned, and we were going to enjoy it to the very fullest.

"I think I said half-past six, Holmes," I laughed, pulling the watch from my pocket again and swinging it in front of his nose, "but I got that from the mantle clock – you forgot to wind this before you sneaked it into my pocket!"

He stared at me and snatched the offending article from my hand, scrutinizing it with a scowl.

"Powers of observation and attention to detail, indeed!" I snorted, eyeing him for his reaction.

I am sure that Mrs. Hudson was wondering if the two of us had suddenly gone mad when she heard the near-hysterical shouts of laughter pealing from the sitting room.

Holmes was still chortling ten minutes later as we were preparing to exit the flat for our favorite restaurant in the Strand.

"You know how good the feeling is, Holmes, to be able to laugh without worrying about hurting oneself?" I cried, reveling in the fact.

"_And_ how grand it is to walk without help, old chap," he replied, carelessly mashing his top hat down onto his head.

"Yes, I was rather glad when your leg healed as well," I said dryly, putting on my own hat, "you are the most perfectly dreadful patient a doctor could ever ask for!"

Holmes snorted, opening the door and gesturing me outside with a wide smile. Even though the wind was chilly, we cared naught for it, too glad to be back home to care about anything else.

We were back in London, back in Baker Street, having laid all my ghosts, and perhaps one of Holmes's, to rest back in Scotland. Andrew's tarnished reputation had been mostly cleared of his former less-than-desirable character, and I had faced my fear of the past and had overcome it with Holmes's help.

And as he slipped his arm through mine as we walked along the Baker Street and began to make rather embarrassingly personal deductions about the people we passed, I could not repress a laugh of delight.

"What? It's true – that man did have an extraordinarily long nose!" Holmes said defensively.

I laughed even harder.

And although I should always miss my brother Andrew, Providence had sent me a pointed reminder in this case to not take for granted the things I still had in this life. I had learnt a valuable lesson, and I would never forget it.

"Watson?"

"I'm sorry, Holmes, I was not listening?"

"I said, did you see that horrid looking woman back there, the one that weighs at least thirteen stone? I do believe she's going to poison her husband in the next fortnight or so!"

I stared at my friend, shaking my head, once again laughing aloud.

Even through the upheavals of life's complicated twistings, some things would never change.

THE END


End file.
